Case of the One-Eyed Tiger Page 7

  “What is it with you, anyway?” Detective Samuelson demanded as he yanked open the door to the gallery. “Are you trying to see how many times your name comes up on our radar?”

  I was sitting in an arm chair just inside the front door. I looked up at Vance and then promptly pointed straight down at Sherlock, who by this time had curled up by my feet.

  “It’s not me. It’s him. I was driving by when he started barking and whining. He came straight in here and then pulled me over to that painting. Morticia there assumed I wanted to buy it.”

  “Morticia?” Samuelson asked, confused. He turned to see who I was pointing at. “Her name is Zora, not Morticia.”

  Got it. Not an Addams Family fan and no sense of humor whatsoever. I pointed at the painting, still propped up on the easel.

  “Would you please check that out and tell me this is one big false alarm?”

  Vance’s brows furrowed as he caught sight of the dark smudge on the painting’s bright orange frame. He squatted down next to the piece of art and peered intently at the mark.

  “It’s paint, right?” I asked hopefully.

  Vance shook his head, “Looks like blood to me. Hold on. I’ll check.”

  Zack pulled out a small gray zippered pouch from within his inside jacket pocket, extracted one of those swab things I’ve always seen on TV, and swiped it along the frame. Then he produced a small test tube, dumped the swab head first into the tube, and then added a couple of drops from two different bottles. The swab turned pink.

  “Well, its official, sports fans,” Vance announced, with exaggerated bravado. “We have blood on the frame.”

  “Do you always carry around a blood tester kit thingamajig?” I asked as I pointed at the gray case Zack had set on a nearby counter.

  “What about it? It’s just the Kastle-Meyer test. Swab the substance, add hydrogen peroxide, and then introduce the phenolphthalein solution. If it’s blood then the swab will turn pink. Most detectives will leave their kit in the car. I like having mine with me when I’m on duty.” The detective turned to Zora, who was sitting in a nearby chair. “Ms. Lumen, is it safe to say this painting was taken from that spot on the wall over there?”

  “Yes,” Zora’s eerily neutral voice answered.

  “I hope you understand that this painting has to come with me. I have to get it to the lab so they can have the blood tested.”

  “It’s Debbie’s blood,” Zora whispered. Her already gaunt face seemed even more withdrawn, more sunken. “There’s no need to test it.”

  “Why don’t you let us be the judge of that?” Vance said as he gave the art gallery owner a guarded smile. “In fact, we’ll probably have to bring a team back in here and check every painting to see if the original team missed anything else.”

  “Please don’t,” Zora moaned. “I don’t think my heart could handle another surprise if anything else turned up.”

  Frowning, I turned to Zora.

  “So you’re saying you’re okay if there’s another bloodstain somewhere and it remains undiscovered? Would you want something like that lurking behind a painting?”

  Zora fixed me with her steel gray eyes.

  “You have a point, young Zachary.”

  Oh, shit. She knew my name?

  “Oh, yes,” Zora confirmed, correctly guessing what I had been thinking. “I know who you are.”

  “How?” I inquired, hoping to prove to Vance that I had never met Zora before. I had already noticed he had pulled out his notebook and was taking more notes. “We’ve never met before today. I swear!”

  “Who are you trying to convince, pal?” Vance asked as he continued writing in his notebook.

  “We have never met before today,” Zora confirmed.

  My respect for the creepy store owner rose a few notches. Someone was finally backing up my story.

  “So how do you know me?” I asked, as soon as Zora was looking back at me.

  She slowly stood, retreated to her tiny office in the back corner, and reemerged holding a folded newspaper.

  “Your picture was in the paper.”

  I paled. Harry never mentioned the paper had a picture of me. How did they get it? Where did they get it? Who the hell was supplying these people with information about me?

  I took the paper and unfolded it. Great. That’s just great. Not only was my picture in the paper but it had made the front page! It was a picture of me and Sam, but the photo had been cropped so that only I was visible. That picture, I knew, had been taken last year at the last family get together Samantha and I had attended.

  So who was supplying the newspaper with all this information about me? Was it Abigail? The article went on to talk about my inheritance, Sam’s death, and my intention to relocate from Arizona. The article was dated ten days ago. I had only made the decision to move a few weeks before that. So who was the mole?

  I vowed to find out.

  “Do you need me for anything else?” I asked.

  Vance looked at me and then deliberately looked down at Sherlock.

  “Ok, little fella. You seem to have a knack for finding things that need to be found. Is there anything else in here we need to know about?”

  Sherlock gave the surroundings a passing glance before he rose to his feet and headed towards the door.

  “I guess that’s a ‘no’,” I told Vance.

  Vance carried the painting outside, tried to slide the large painting into the back seat of his car and, when that didn’t work, popped open his trunk. He watched Sherlock and I get back into the Jeep.

  “Hey, Zack. Do me a favor?”

  Surprised, I glanced over at the detective who was now trying to figure out how to get the painting into his trunk without damaging it. “Sure. What do you need?”

  “Stop calling me.”

  I laughed as I pulled away from the curb.

  Sherlock and I finally found the grocery store. It was much smaller than what I was used to. Ever been in one of those gas station convenience stores? It was about that size. I parked my Jeep in a spot next to a tree, cracked a window, and gave Sherlock a friendly pat. I told the corgi he had to stay put. Even though I knew this was a pet friendly town, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be allowed inside the store.

  Sherlock patiently curled up on his seat and settled down to wait.

  “Are all dogs as well-mannered as you are?” I asked as I ruffled his ears. “You are a good dog, boy.”

  Sherlock licked my hand as a way of saying thanks.

  Half an hour later we were cutting down 5th Street, heading towards the next stop on my list, namely the post office. Sherlock, who had been snoozing in his seat, suddenly leapt to his feet and began barking. I stared quizzically at the buildings and people we were driving by. As far as I could tell there was nothing out of the ordinary. I gave the corgi a friendly pat, which seemed to mollify him, and we continued on our errands.

  By the time we made it back to the house I had managed to check off everything on my To Do list, aside from meeting with the locksmith in a few hours. I lugged my new television into the front sitting room, cleared a spot for it on the floor, plugged it in, and then…

  Shit. Houston, we have a problem.

  Let me pause here for a moment. Ever watch a standard definition show on a high definition television? The picture is grainy and the sound is terrible. But you know what? It’s better than watching a “No Signal Detected” message bouncing around the screen. Guess I should have thought to look for a cable hookup.

  A quick perusal through the phone book had me tossing it angrily across the room. Guess what else Pomme Valley doesn’t have? Yup. No cable. Hell, there wasn’t even anything for a set of rabbit ears to pick up. No wonder Aunt Bonnie didn’t have a television in her house. There was literally nothing to watch.

  Very well. Tomorrow’s list had been started: contact satellite provider. I should be able to find s
omeone who could provide service for this area. This isn’t the Stone Age, for crying out loud.

  My thoughts drifted back to the events inside the gallery from earlier today. A few questions had recently sprung up that were screaming for an answer. Most of them centered on my new dog. First of all, how had Sherlock known to check inside the gallery? That cute little furball had headed straight towards the only painting that had traces of blood on it. I know. Vance called me several hours later to let me know that a couple of investigators had sifted through each and every single painting in Zora’s gallery and had found no additional blood. They even took the time to check all the paintings lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves on the other two walls.

  No blood. Not anywhere. And not only that, the blood was only on the painting’s frame. Nothing had been transferred to the wall. What did that mean? Why had Debra touched only the one painting? The entire wall had been covered in pieces of art, yet the blood had only found its way onto the one painting. Why? What had Debra been thinking? Better yet, what had she been doing? Was it even her blood?

  Second, how did that little dog know to check the winery earlier today? Coincidence? Could Sherlock have smelled the body in there?

  I shuddered. Disgusting, but a distinct possibility. I knew all dogs had a highly developed sense of smell. He must have caught a whiff of the dead body. It was the only explanation I could come up with.

  The photo of Samantha and I on the front page of the Pomme Valley newspaper really bugged me. Had Abigail been the person to leak it to the press? Had she angrily informed everyone that Sam and I had erroneously inherited Lentari Cellars when it should have been her? Had she been the one who had planted my fingerprint on that damn notebook?

  I shook my head. I still didn’t have a clue how anyone could have gotten my prints in the first place. It didn’t make sense. I had to be missing something. Yes, Abigail Lawson was the perfect person to pin this on. She wanted the winery and was very upset her mother had left her entire estate to someone besides her. She certainly had the motivation and hadn’t had any qualms about voicing her opinions.

  I started to pace in the living room. Sherlock, content to watch me from the blue and white floral sofa, watched me wear a path into the carpeting.

  “Ok, pal,” I said, addressing the corgi, who instantly perked up once he had noticed I was paying attention to him, “since you’re so good at finding these clues, how about giving me a hand?”

  Sherlock blinked twice as he stared at me.

  “You found the dead body and you found the blood on the painting. If I’m ever going to be able to clear my name then we’re going to have to launch our own investigation. With the exception of Vance, the whole damn police department thinks I’m involved. I’m not. You know that. I know that.”

  Blink. Blink.

  “So how do I make everyone else understand that? Where do I go from here?”

  Sherlock rose to his feet and jumped down from the couch. He headed towards the kitchen, stopped, and looked back at me, as if to say, you asked for my help so try to keep up. Once he saw that I was following he headed through the kitchen and stopped at the door leading into the utility room. I automatically reached for the broom, which was leaning up against the wall nearby.

  “Is there something in there you want me to see? It had better not be that mouse again or you and I are gonna have words.”

  Sherlock sniffed along the bottom of the door. He looked back up at me and whined. Gripping the broom handle tightly, I opened the door. Sherlock pushed by me and inspected the room. He glanced once at the (now empty) laundry basket before he moved to a large, old-fashioned trash can, the kind where you have to step on a little lever on the front of the can so that the lid will pop open.

  “It’s a trash can. What about it?”

  Sherlock barked once. He nudged the trash can with his nose. Great. I vowed to all present that if there was a mouse in there then I wouldn’t turn into a 12 year old girl.

  I stepped on the lever. The can’s lid popped up so hard that it smacked the wall behind it, giving off a loud clang. Thankfully, there wasn’t anything in the can that wanted out. I could only see, well, trash.

  “There’s nothing there, Sherlock.”

  The corgi paced in front of the trash can, whining loudly. I pulled off the flip-open lid and tipped it down so he could see for himself there wasn’t anything there.

  “Look. Just trash. Now will you let it go?”

  Sherlock stretched his neck out and took several steps forward, effectively burying his snout in the can. When I pulled the can away I could see that there was a twisted wad of paper in the dog’s mouth.

  What followed was an extensive, drawn out game of tug-of-war. While trying to retrieve whatever it was that Sherlock had picked up, I learned something about dogs that day. First, dogs have a very playful personality. Sherlock absolutely loved the attention I was giving him as I chased his furry butt through the house, trying to yank the paper out of his mouth.

  The second was something I had already witnessed earlier, and that was the speed in which a corgi could move. Sherlock could essentially run laps around me and make me feel like a lumbering idiot.

  The third piece of trivia I learned about dogs was that they absolutely loved to play keep-away. Sherlock, being low to the ground, could take corners at Mach 1. I, trailing hopelessly behind without a chance in hell of catching up, had all the stealth and dexterity of an adult hippo.

  Ten minutes later found me sitting on the couch in the living room, sides heaving, and completely out of breath. Sherlock padded back into the room and looked at me with concern written all over his canine features. He spit the soggy, twisted paper at my feet and promptly sat. I do believe the little bastard was worried about me. Condescending little puke.

  “Don’t even think you won this round. I let you win.”

  I picked up the damp paper and untwisted it to see what it was. My eyebrows shot up with surprise and I forgot all about the fact I was holding on to a something that was soaked with doggie drool. It was a copy of the Pomme Valley Gazette and it was dated ten days ago. Yes, it was the same issue I had seen before in Zora’s art gallery. There was my picture, right on the front page, only this time I was sporting a handlebar moustache and a tiny goatee. Someone had doodled on the pic. From inside a house that was supposed to be empty.

  It was definitely time to consider adding a security system to the house. I don’t like knowing that someone had spent time in this house, going through whatever Aunt Bonnie had lying around. I had to assume whoever had been squatting inside this house after Aunt Bonnie’s death was the same person that was doing their damnedest to set me up to take the fall for Debra Jacob’s murder.

  I looked at the shredded newspaper and then over at a nearby clock. It was only 1:30. There was still time enough to do what I had in mind. I think it was high time I started to try clearing my name.

  “Want to go for another ride, Sherlock?”

  There’s another word I’m going to have to start spelling around that dog. Wow. You’d think I just offered him the world’s biggest doggie biscuit. Sherlock ran straight towards the door and then looked back at me with an exasperated expression, as if the only thing he could see was the out-of-shape lardball I felt like whenever I was around him.

  We were headed north on 5th Street, approaching Main, when Sherlock began barking again. I instinctively glanced to my right to see what the little fellow was barking at. Ah. Harry’s office was quickly approaching on the right. Clearly Sherlock harbored some strong feelings about that place and was voicing his resentment. Or perhaps he was bragging to his former cellmates that he was now living the high life? I turned left onto Main Street and Sherlock promptly fell silent.

  Five minutes later I was pulling into the offices of Pomme Valley Gazette. I wanted to speak with the reporter who had written the feature ab
out me and find out who had given him his information. How had the reporter learned about me? Who had given him my picture? Surely they must know or else could point me in the right direction.

  Those were questions I desperately wanted answered.

  “Good afternoon,” a chipper woman in her thirties told me from behind the front desk. “How can I help you today?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Taylor Rossen. Is he available?”

  “Mr. Taylor Rossen?” the receptionist repeated, confused. “Do you mean Ms. Taylor Rossen, the beat reporter?”

  He was a she. The paper had failed to put a “Ms.” or “Mr.” in front of their name.

  “That’s right. Is she in? I’d like to have a word with her.”

  The receptionist typed a few commands into her computer.

  “I can see if she’s at her desk today. Just a moment.”

  A few buttons were pressed on the phone as the woman’s headset was adjusted.

  “Ms. Rossen? There’s someone here to… I’m sorry? Oh, Mrs. Jennings. I didn’t realize you had answered her phone. Yes. Yes, there’s a gentleman here to see Ms. Rossen. When is she due back? I see. I will let him know. Thank you.”

  The receptionist touched the side of her headset and then looked up at me.

  “Ms. Rossen is covering an event over at Cookbook Nook. Ms. Cooper is holding a meet-and-greet for a well-known cookbook author right now. Taylor is there covering the event with a photographer.”

  “Cookbook Nook, huh? Can you tell me where that is?”

  “It’s on the corner of 3rd and Main. The building is big and purple. You can’t miss it.”

  I thanked the woman and headed back to my Jeep. Sherlock greeted me with a lick on my hand.

  “We’re off to Cookbook Nook,” I told the inquisitive corgi. “Apparently this town doesn’t have any cable but they have a whole store dedicated to cookbooks. Let’s go check it out, okay?”

  The receptionist was right. It was big, purple, and very hard to miss. I didn’t know who this author was that was holding this book signing, but clearly they were well known. There wasn’t a parking space to be had anywhere within a half mile of the place. I looked down at Sherlock as I parked the Jeep. I really didn’t want to leave him unattended for that long. Was the store pet friendly? A quick search on Google located the store’s Facebook page. Turns out the answer was yes and no. Yes, the store was pet friendly, but animals were not allowed to go upstairs where the store’s little café was.

  That’d work for me. Sherlock and I headed out.

  The door chimed loudly as we entered the specialty book store. Right away I noticed the store was bright, cheerful, and very clean. As my eyes skimmed over the many cases of books I could see that they had been neatly separated into the following categories: Basics, General, Holiday, Desserts, Slow Cooker, BBQ & Grilling, Ethnic, and Entertaining. Clearly someone had given this some thought.

  There was also, I was surprised to see, a large portion of the store dedicated to selling kitchen accessories. Kitchen gadgets, cooking and bake ware, cake decorating supplies, and so on, were spread out across a number of racks and end caps. On the immediate right of the main doors was a set of stairs leading up to the café on the second floor. I didn’t know what they were cooking up there but it certainly smelled good. Even Sherlock’s nose lifted as he detected the wonderful scents filtering down from above.

  Several folding tables had been set out in the center of the store. A crowd of people were standing around the tables as someone, make that several someones, moved from table to table. The crowds parted long enough for me to see what was going on.

  It was a cooking demonstration. Apparently the cookbook author was demonstrating how easy it was to prepare some of the dishes in his book. A second person, a pretty woman in her thirties with shoulder length auburn hair, was standing next to the author and asking questions about the dishes. Every so often the crowd would break into laughter and then applause would follow shortly thereafter.

  I saw a man standing off to the side with a professional looking camera with a huge telephoto lens. That had to be the newspaper photographer. So where was Ms. Rossen? Could she be the one behind the tables?

  Sherlock and I stayed well back from the crowds. The last thing I wanted was for someone to trip over Sherlock because they weren’t watching where they were going. Corgis were known as the low riders of the dog world. I know. I Googled the breed when I had been waiting to talk to the locksmith earlier today. People have a tendency to trip over dogs that low to the ground. The point is, I didn’t want to get my ass sued.

  The woman behind the table caught my eye. I don’t know why I looked up at that point but when I did I could see that she had been looking directly at me. As soon as our eyes met she looked away. A few seconds later I saw her glance my way again, smile, and then return her attention back to the cooking demonstration.

  Thankfully the author took a small break ten minutes later. Since I still didn’t know which person was the beat reporter, I decided to approach the woman behind the table and find out.

  I easily towered over her. She had seemed so much taller from a distance. She looked up at me as I approached, smiled, and held out her right hand.

  “Good afternoon! I don’t think we’ve met before. Jillian Cooper. I’m the owner here at Cookbook Nook. What might your name be?”

  “Zack Anderson,” I answered, curious to see what her reaction would be. Hopefully Ms. Cooper wasn’t aware of what I had been accused of.

  Jillian’s eyes widened. I tried to hide the groan that formed.

  “Mr. Anderson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “I see that you’ve heard of me,” I said, as I took her hand and gave it a firm shake.

  “This is a small town, Mr. Anderson.”

  “Please,” I groaned. “It’s just ‘Zack’.”

  She suppressed a giggle, “Very well, Zack. What brings you to my establishment?”

  Sherlock barked once. It was short, high-pitched, and piercing. As I’ve already learned, and should have remembered, Sherlock didn’t like to be left out of the introductions.

  “Sorry, pal. I’m not used to having to introduce a dog wherever I go. Okay, Jillian, this is my dog, Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Jillian.”

  Sherlock sat, looked up at Jillian, and refused to blink.

  “He’s waiting for me to say something, isn’t he?” Jillian asked as a smile formed on her face. She squatted down so that she could hold her hand out to the corgi’s nose.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “If you’re offering your hand as some form of sacrifice, don’t bother. He’s already had breakfast.”

  “This is the proper way to introduce yourself to a dog,” Jillian explained. Sherlock approached, sniffed the proffered hand, and gave it a lick. “Let the dog come to you. He knows I am offering him a chance to learn my scent. Did you see him lick my hand? That was his way of telling me that he has accepted me into his pack.”

  “His pack? Corgis have packs?”

  “All dogs do. Even though you’re not a dog, Zack, Sherlock treats you as a full pack member. In fact, most dogs defer to the humans as pack leader. It’s how their societies behave. It’s quite fascinating, actually.”

  I shrugged as I looked down at Sherlock.

  “You learn something new every day. Listen, could you tell me who Taylor Rossen is?”

  “The reporter? Sure. She’s over there, near Desserts. She’s the one wearing the long sleeved maroon blouse and black slacks.”

  The woman in question looked to be in her late twenties, had her black hair cropped short in a pixie cut, and looked as though she was fresh out of college.

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  “Is everything okay, Zack? Your face looks a little pale.”

  “I’m fine. It’s been a stressful couple of days. No worries. I just need
to ask her a few questions.”

  “Very well. It was nice meeting you. I do hope to see you in here again sometime soon.”

  Gripping Sherlock’s leash tightly, I headed towards the racks of cookbooks that dealt with desserts. Ms. Rossen was chatting with an older lady while taking notes in her notebook. In short hand, I might add.

  The reporter looked up and locked eyes with me. I saw a spark of recognition pass across her features. She returned her attention to the elderly woman she had been interviewing and finished asking her questions. Several minutes later she closed her notebook and walked over to me.

  “I don’t need to introduce myself, do I?” I asked as she approached.

  “You don’t,” she returned. She held out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Anderson. I’m Taylor Rossen.”

  “I know who you are, too,” I confessed. “I’m here to see you.”

  Taylor blinked with surprise, “You’re here to see me? What can I do for you?”

  “Sorry to track you down like this but I have a couple of questions I was hoping you’d be able to answer for me.”

  Taylor nodded, “Sure. If I can.”

  “I was quite surprised to find myself featured on the front page of your newspaper. You wrote an article about me, about my history in Phoenix, and about the death of my wife.”

  Taylor nodded, “I remember.”

  “Where did you get your information? How did you get the picture of me that was printed in the paper?”

  “I was assured everything was public domain,” Taylor told me.

  “Even the picture? Don’t give me that public domain crap. It was a picture of me and Sam, with Sam cropped out. I never gave permission for that photo to be used for anything. So tell me, Ms. Rossen, where did you get that picture?”

  I studied the reporter’s face. I know you’re going to think I’m evil, but I was quite pleased to see an uncertain look pass across her features.

  “He told me that you’re the one who contacted him about getting a story in the paper. He said you wanted everyone to know that you were taking over Lentari Cellars.”

  “Who is this person you’re talking about?”

  “He told me his name, but I didn’t catch it,” the reported hesitantly admitted. “He said he was a good friend of yours.”

  “Was he, now? How interesting. Don’t you think that’s a little convenient? According to you, the person feeding you information about me introduces himself but you can’t remember who it is?”

  Taylor fidgeted uneasily. I got the distinct impression Ms. Rossen was unprepared for this particular discussion. Why wasn’t I surprised? Well, I mean, I was, because I was expecting to hear that the informant was Abigail Lawson. Taylor had referenced a “he”, so this threw my one and only theory out the window.

  Taylor sighed loudly.

  “Look, I thought we had all the necessary consent we needed in order to publish the photo and the article. I never realized it was done without your permission.”

  “If you can’t remember his name then would you describe him for me? Surely you can remember what he looked like.”

  Taylor crossed her arms over her chest, sighed, and closed her eyes. “Hm. Let me think. Early to mid-thirties, short blond hair, blue eyes. He was very intense, like I don’t think he has ever smiled in his life. He was shorter than you but taller than me.”

  “How much taller than you?” I wanted to know.

  The reporter opened her eyes and held a hand up about four inches over her head. Taylor was indicating this mystery person was around 5’10”.

  “Skinny? Chunky? What are we talking about?”

  “Skinny,” Taylor instantly answered. “He couldn’t have been more than 150 pounds.”

  “Anything else you might have noticed about him?”

  “Well, I… wait.” Taylor snapped her fingers. “You know what? As a way of saying ‘I’m sorry’ for printing the article and publishing that picture without your permission, I think I can provide you with a picture of the guy who said he was your friend.”

  “Really? How?”

  “He came to my office. That means he had to walk by the receptionist desk. We installed a state-of-the-art security system last year. The data is stored digitally, offsite. Hang on, let me see what I can do.”

  The reporter pulled her phone out of her purse and punched a number in.

  “Dana? It’s Taylor. Listen. Can you get me Robert’s number? No, not Circulation. IT. Right. You will? Great. Thanks!” She hung up and then gave me a sheepish smile.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Robert has a crush on me. I literally just have to snap my fingers and he’s there.”

  “What are you planning on having the guy do? Hopefully nothing illegal.”

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that. Robert has already gone home for the day. However, he’s the one that knows how to access our online storage and be able to pull up a picture of the guy that was in my office. He claims he can do it from any computer with internet access.”

  “And that type of thing is even possible?” I skeptically asked. I couldn’t even begin to fathom how this Robert person would go about doing something like that. Maybe Samantha would. She had been the electronic whiz in our household.

  “For you and me? No. But for him, sure. He’s tried to explain to me how it works before but its way over my head. Needless to say, if there’s a way to get this guy’s picture from the security footage, he’d be able to do it.”

  Taylor spotted Sherlock and bent down to give him a scratch behind his ears. Sherlock gave her a neutral stare and barely sniffed her outstretched hand.

  “What an adorable dog! Is he yours?”

  Was I, or was I not, holding on to his leash? I almost said that out loud but managed to censor myself at the last moment.

  “Yep. I broke him out of jail yesterday.”

  “Aww, that’s so sweet of you.” Taylor dropped to one knee and ruffled the fur on Sherlock’s head. “My cousin has a corgi. She insists they are one of the smartest breeds out there.”

  “Are dogs as smart as they let on to be?” I asked as I watched Sherlock continue to eye the reporter as though he was tolerating her presence for my benefit only.

  “Absolutely. They know when you’re having a bad day, they can recognize certain words, and they certainly know when you plan on taking them to the vet.”

  I laughed out loud. It was true. Of the few times I’ve been in a vet’s office, not including Harry’s, the dogs that were brought in were, shall we say, less than cooperative.

  Taylor’s phone rang. My hopes soared. This could be the boost I needed. If I could get a picture of this mysterious informant then I could start working on identifying him. I needed to know how he obtained his info. Was he truly someone that I knew? Could he be related to that horrible Abigail Lawson? I needed that picture.

  Taylor finished her call and looked up at me.

  “That was Robert. I explained to him what we were looking for.”

  “You don’t look happy. Let me guess. There’s no way for him to single out an image of this mystery person?”

  “Oh, no,” Taylor said, shaking her head. “He assured me that was the easy part.”

  “Really? Then why do you look so glum?”

  “I had to agree to go out on a date with him before he’d be willing to do it.”

  Oh, snap.

  “Wow. Well, um, I’m not sure what to say to that.”

  Taylor fixed me with her piercing blue eyes.

  “Just repeat after me. We are even.”

  I stifled a smile.

  “We are even. Thanks. I appreciate this.”

  “You should. The little turd is playing hardball. How dare he extort a date out of me?”

  I wasn’t sure if she was genuinely upset or was merely annoyed. It didn’t matter. She was do
ing this as a favor to me so I didn’t feel a need to question her motives.

  Five minutes later Taylor’s purse dinged. She hastily fished the phone out of her bag and checked the display. Smiling profusely, she held the phone out to me to show me the picture.

  “That’s him. There’s your guy. Do you know him?”

  I studied the pic. It was a shot of a man younger than me with light-colored hair, fair skin, and a narrow face. He was standing directly in front of the receptionist’s desk, more than likely asking for directions to Taylor’s office. I decided he had a European flair to him.

  “I’ve never seen him before. Hey, is there any way you can get me a copy of this picture?”

  “Sure. Is your phone set up to only share information with contacts or can anyone send you a pic?”

  “Now how the hell would I know that?” I sputtered as I stared at my phone as though I had never seen it before.

  Taylor sighed and held out a hand.

  “Men. Give me your phone.”

  I grudgingly handed it to her. She began tapping icons, sliding her finger across the screen, and punching in letters from a tiny virtual keyboard that appeared on the lower portion of the screen. I squatted down to give Sherlock a few scratches behind his ears. The little corgi was eyeing the reporter as though he was still undecided about her. I felt a tap on my shoulder and looked up. Taylor was holding my phone out to me.

  “I need you to unlock your settings. Tap your code in for me.”

  I shrugged and tapped in the unlock code, making sure she wasn’t able to see it. Taylor resumed her tapping and I resumed scratching behind Sherlock’s ears. Twenty seconds later she handed me my phone back. There, on the screen, was the same pic she had been sent by her IT guy.

  “How did you do that?” I demanded. “Do you have the same phone?”

  “No,” Taylor said, shaking her head. “However, most cell phones have the same type of settings. It was just a matter of knowing where to look. Your phone has been preset to only allow the sharing of data if you’re a contact. I really didn’t want to change any settings on your phone so I added myself to your address book and voila! I was able to send you the picture.”

  I shook my head. It was beyond me. Whatever happened to the simpler days when a cell phone’s only responsibilities were to make and take phone calls?

  It was time to go. I could see that another cooking demonstration was starting up. Taylor excused herself, collected her photographer, and set up for the next round of photos. Jillian, standing up at the table next to the author, caught my eye. She smiled and gave me a small wave. Before I knew what I was doing I was waving back at her. I looked down at Sherlock, who inexplicably looked up at me at the same time.

  “I do believe I’m going to have to take up cooking. What do you think, pal?”

  Sherlock panted happily. My nostrils flared. Mr. fancy-pants author had just burned whatever he was cooking.

  I checked the time. It was nearly 3 and for the first time since I had moved to Pomme Valley, I felt great. I had caught my first real break! I had a picture of the guy who was pretty much the reason why there had been an article about me in the newspaper. I had to get a name to go with the face, but how?

  “What do you say we go for a walk, pal?”

  When will I learn not to say the word ‘walk’ in front of a dog? All I can say is that it’s a good thing I had the leash wrapped around my wrist or else Sherlock would have taken off like a shot. As I was physically pulled to the door, I had a mental image of a farmer plowing his field with his trusty horse. It had to feel something like that.

  “Damn, Sherlock. Were you a Clydesdale in another life?”

  Ten minutes later we were less than three blocks from what was starting to feel like my second home. Perhaps Vance would be able to use the picture Taylor had supplied and could get this person identified. I figured there’s a better than average chance that this person, whoever it was, was the same person who had been squatting at my house, making incriminating phone calls, and so on.

  Sherlock stopped pulling on his leash and turned around to look up at me. He barked once.

  “What? Do you see something?”

  Sherlock barked again. He ran back to me and jumped up on my legs. It continued to amaze me just how long that dog’s body was. Sherlock’s head was nearly able to reach my waist. He nudged my right pocket. The same pocket that held my phone.

  “That’s a coincidence, right? Are you telling me you’re a mind reader now? I was thinking about calling Vance, that’s all.”

  Sherlock nosed my pocket again.

  “Fine. I’ll call him. Satisfied?”

  Apparently he was. He dropped back to all fours and headed off down the sidewalk.

  I verified Vance was there. He said he’d be more than happy to take a look at the picture and run it through the police department databases. All I had to do was get it to him. Either I could swing by the station and have someone more adept at modern smart phones than I was retrieve the picture or else I could save myself the trouble and do it myself. He even had the gall to ask me if I knew the way there. I jokingly reminded him that I had a dedicated parking spot right out front.

  For some reason he didn’t see the humor in that.

  I struggled with the phone for a few minutes before I finally found the “attach” option and successfully managed to send a picture to the detective. Sadly, it was the wrong one. Once attached, the picture proved to be a bear to remove from the message. On the third attempt I finally managed to attach the correct picture and send it off. Or at least I hope I did.

  As I crossed 3rd Street, heading toward 2nd, I caught sight of someone tailing me. It had to be someone from the PD. The funny thing was, I was equal parts annoyed and thrilled at the same time. I was annoyed because it meant the PVPD thought I might slip up and do something stupid that would end up incriminating myself. It meant they didn’t think too highly of me. I was thrilled because, well, someone was following me! I thought that only happened in the movies!

  Sherlock came to a stop as we passed by a small diner. I pretended to study the menu posted on the door while I checked out the people directly behind me. There, about thirty feet back, was a guy wearing a black Metallica tee with ripped jeans. The moment I stopped to check out the menu I noticed he had stopped to pull out his phone.

  I watched him fiddle with his phone for a few moments before I thought of an idea. Using Sherlock as a pretext, I pulled my own phone out, tapped the camera app, and took a few pictures of the corgi. I may not know how to use 95% of my phone but I did know how to take a picture.

  I made sure my shadow was in sight and snapped a few pictures. I smiled as I saw the guy futilely duck out of the way, pretending to window shop at the closest store. I don’t think he realized where he stopped. It was a women’s clothing shop, specializing in ‘blinged out’ apparel.

  Dumbass. Nothing suspicious there, pal.

  I grabbed Sherlock’s leash and continued on. Now that I knew Twinkletoes was back there, I was anxious to see if I could lose him. The movies always made it look so damn easy. I was a smart guy. I should be able to do this. All I had to do was create a distraction and then, when the moment was right, duck into a nearby store.

  I looked down at Sherlock. Easier said than done when you’re walking a dog. Let’s see. I could do this. What sort of distraction could I create? It’s not like I could rely on the people walking around me. Most had their heads down and weren’t paying attention. Besides, there just weren’t that many people milling about. What I needed was…

  A siren sounded from somewhere in the distance. Ask and ye shall receive, right? The wail of the siren grew louder as it neared. Sherlock stopped walking and looked around. I watched his ears rotate this way and that as he tried to figure out what he was hearing.

  An ambulance appeared directly in front of me, siren
blasting, lights flashing, and running red lights. I watched the ambulance drive by when I noticed my shadow had also turned to watch the progress of the noisy emergency vehicle.

  I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I instantly grabbed Sherlock and ducked through the nearest open door.

  I quickly walked over to a large display case showcasing several shelves of cast iron cookware. I looked around the store I was in. Hidden Relic Antiques. Nice. Sam and I had always enjoyed checking out antique stores.

  The store was large, had display racks of various sizes scattered all about, and had quite the collection of artifacts. Old dressers, large heavy looking bookcases, and even an actual wardrobe were lined up against one wall. Another had several bookcases full of old books of various sizes and conditions.

  Quickly glancing around the store confirmed there were several places I could duck out of view. Granted, if Mr. Metallica happened to walk inside here and look around then I’d be busted. However, if I were to crouch behind that rack of funky cookie jars and wait a few minutes, he might just pass me by.

  Sherlock, held tightly in my arms, looked down at the floor and then twisted around to look at me. A look of sheer curiosity was written all over the corgi’s features. Both ears were up, his eyes were unblinking, and to complete the picture, he cocked his head at me.

  “Bear with me for a moment, pal,” I whispered to him. “Let’s see if we can lose him, okay?”

  “I take it you know him?” a deep, gruff voice asked from behind me.

  “Are you talking about the guy in the black Metallica shirt?” I asked, without standing up.

  “That’s the guy,” the voice confirmed. “He’s looking for you and isn’t happy that he can’t find you.”

  “I’m not sure why he’s tailing me but I’m trying to shake him. Do you mind if I hang out here for just a bit?”

  “Suit yourself. I don’t throw customers out on the street. Provided you’re a customer, that is. Besides, I recognize that kid.”

  I finally turned so that I could place a face with the voice. Now, I hate to appear judgmental, but I had assumed that the owner of an antique store would be a quiet, neatly dressed soft-spoken senior that could easily pass for someone’s grandfather.

  Well, the owner of that voice, staring down at me from above the display rack, was old enough to be a grandfather but that’s where the similarities ended. In case you missed it, let me backtrack. He was staring down at me from over the display rack!

  I’m sure both Sherlock and I were doing the same thing, which was praying Mr. Goliath here wasn’t going to throw us out to the wolves. Or snap us in half, like he would do to a couple of toothpicks. I looked back toward the open street. I could see Mr. Metallica looking angrily about as he tried to locate the two of us.

  I looked back up at the large store proprietor. I had a decision to make.

  SIX