“Are you sure you don’t want to try? You might be able to get some type of commission and make a few bucks off of me. I mean, look at that thing. It’s gotta be expensive. Are you sure you don’t want to run this by your distributor?”
Okay, okay, I guess some context is required. Let me start by introducing myself. My name is Zachary Anderson, and I’m a caffeine addict. No, not coffee, or any type of drink that has a drop of coffee flavoring in it. I’m talking about the much better alternative called soda. Yeah, I know. I probably shouldn’t drink the stuff. Especially the diet version. However, I was hooked on it. It sure beat the wine my winery made.
Speaking of wines, I should also mention that I own my own private winery, Lentari Cellars. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? In southwest Oregon, in the small town of Pomme Valley (PV to the locals), my winery is the talk of the town. Absent for almost two years, the reappearance of everyone’s favorite brand of wine made a lot of people happy. And, of course, it made me a few nasty enemies. Abigail Lawson was at the top of the list. Crotchety, grouchy, bitchy, and a whole slew of other colorful adjectives sprang to mind whenever I thought of her. Her mother, Bonnie Davies, was the one who had left her estate, which included the house and winery, to me and my late wife, Samantha. Abigail naturally thought I should ‘do the right thing’ and sign over control to her and her alone. To say that she was pissed off when I refused was an understatement. This was my winery, and I had decided to keep it open in my wife’s memory. Ms. Sourpuss was just gonna have to deal with that.
So, what happened to Samantha, you ask? Well, my wife passed away from a freak automobile accident early last year. We were living in Phoenix at the time, and each of us was driving home from work, only in separate cars. For some inexplicable reason, Sam’s SUV suddenly veered into oncoming traffic and collided with a semi head on. She was killed instantly.
At least, that’s what I thought had happened. Now, I wasn’t so sure. Let me explain.
Ever since I moved to PV last year, I had been getting annoying phone calls at 3:30am. Every. Single. Morning. I had just assumed they were from the aforementioned Ms. Sourpuss, Abigail Lawson, in an attempt to drive me away from ‘her’ beloved winery. And if it wasn’t her, then I figured it had to be someone doing her bidding.
Wrong.
Two months ago, I received a phone call that threatened to shatter the new life I had built for myself here in Oregon. Some woman, whom I didn’t know, had called me up out of the blue to claim Samantha’s death had been anything but an accident. She had sounded distraught, and hadn’t wanted to stay on the phone, so I had been unable to ask her who she was, or ask her about her proof.
Thankfully, I had a friend on the local police force. He had reached out to the Phoenix police – on my behalf – and asked for copies of my wife’s file to be sent over, expressing interest in reopening the case. The Phoenix cops were, shall we say, less than thrilled at the prospect of an out-of-state police officer working one of their cold cases. However, seeing how their detectives had been unable to find any leads in well over a year, had finally relented. Copies of all the paperwork, I was told, would be sent over to the Pomme Valley Police Department at their earliest convenience.
Two months later, no files. At least, not yet. I’m sure Vance is sick and tired of me asking if anything has showed up, but if he is, he thankfully doesn’t show it. Well, I suppose I could just wait for the Arizona detectives to forward us what they have, but no. What do I do? Hire the first private investigator I could find that was based in the Phoenix metropolitan area. I gave him what info I had, which wasn’t much, and told him to start digging.
That was nearly a month ago. While the PI’s expenses were considerable, I had more than enough in the bank to finance many years of investigative snooping. Has he found anything? No. I mean, not yet. Alexander Stokes assured me that, if there was anything to find, he’d find it. I just have to be patient.
Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming: the ongoing saga of my life.
I own two dogs, who at the moment, were waiting for me in my Jeep. Two Pembroke Welsh Corgis, if you want to get technical. You may not recognize the name of the breed but I can guarantee you’ve seen pictures of corgis before. Ever see the Queen of England on television? Have you seen her walking those short, squat, elongated little dogs? That’d be them. They’re her favorite breed and I think she has over a dozen of them.
I can honestly say that I’ve never been a dog lover growing up. However, owning those two dogs have completely changed my attitude towards canine companions. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for Sherlock and Watson. Don’t laugh. I didn’t name Sherlock, having already been named when I adopted him. As for Watson, well, her name was my fault. And yes, I said ‘her’ name. Watson is a ‘she’. Trust me, I’ve received a lot of flak by family and friends alike for my little girl’s name.
I should also tell you about the dogs’ unique abilities. Somehow, and I don’t know how, those dogs – especially Sherlock – have become very effective detectives. They have helped me solve several cases with a good friend of mine here in this town. That’d be Vance Samuelson, an actual detective on the local police force, the one I mentioned before. In fact, Captain Nelson, head of the Pomme Valley police department, made me and the dogs official police consultants several months ago. Why? The captain’s granddaughter had her dog stolen, and Captain Nelson had quietly hired us to take the case. Now, we help out the police department at our discretion. However, we had yet to take another case since the dognappers had been apprehended.
Since this was apparently PV’s slow season when it came to crime, the dogs and I were enjoying some much deserved down time. My latest book was burning up the charts and I… oh. In case you didn’t know, I’m also a writer. What kind? Well, that’s where you’re gonna get a good chuckle. I’m a romance writer. That’s what I’m primarily known for, only you won’t see my name on the cover. Nope. In print, I’m known as Chastity Wadsworth. My choice of genres might sound strange to some, but trust me, if you can build up a devoted fan base, it’ll make you a very decent living.
So, let’s recap, shall we? Winery owner, police consultant, and romance novelist. To say I keep very busy would be an understatement. If you would have known me before I moved to PV, then you would have laughed. I prided myself on my laziness. I reveled in the fact that, as a self-employed writer, I could sleep in as late as I wanted to, whenever I felt like it. Now, however, the dogs made sure I was up before the birds to serve them their morning kibble.
When I get some time in between publishing books, you’d better believe I’ll take advantage of it. In this case, I hadn’t plotted out my next novel yet, and PV was experiencing a very pleasant crime-free summer, so I found myself with nothing to do for a few days. How did I celebrate? I’m glad you asked. I headed to my favorite convenience-type store to buy a soda. And surprisingly, here in this tiny southwestern Oregon town, they had one of those pick-your-flavor soda machines that I have been drooling over ever since I learned of their existence. This store, Wired Coffee & Café, had one, and I was doing my damnedest to find a way to add the sleek machine to my list of favorite possessions. I had quickly learned who the owner of the store was and I’ve been trying like crazy to wheedle some information out of him.
There. All caught up. Now, back to the story.
The young twenty-something store owner stared at me with incredulity written all over his features. I personally didn’t see why someone that young would want to own their own business, but, seeing how I was, among other things, a self-employed author, I really couldn’t argue the point. I had been caught – yet again – taking close-up pictures of the marvel of modern day technology sitting in the corner of the store with my cell phone. Right about then, I felt a light tap on my back. Sighing, I turned to see the owner, wearing a not-so-patient look on his face. I shrugged and plastered a sheepish smile on my face. I had been hoping to find the crazy thing’s make and model number, looking for some type of label which identified it as the Flav-o-matic 3000 or something, but no such luck. Damn! Instead, Daryl Benson - owner of Wired Coffee & Cafe - gave me such a look of derision that I ended up laughing out loud. Besides, this was the third time Daryl had caught me checking out his soda machine masterpiece.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson. I know you don’t believe me, but I need you to hear me now: the Coca-Cola Freestyle machines are not for sale. I don’t even own that one. It’s leased directly through the company.”
Not to be deterred, I crossed my arms over my chest, “Well, okay. Then how do I sign up for one of those leases?”
“This is not like you’re trying to lease a car. These are for commercial use only.”
“Look, Daryl, where there’s a will, there’s a way. There’s gotta be a way I can get one of these babies in my rec room. You have to help me out!”
Daryl suddenly lowered his voice and looked left and right, as if he was afraid he’d be overheard by Ye Olde Bigwigs at Coca-Cola.
“Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass these things are?”
I stared at the young store owner as if he had just started speaking in foreign tongues.
“You’re killing me, pal. You can’t possibly mean that.”
Daryl snorted, whether from amusement or exasperation, I couldn’t tell, “Really? Okay, how about the simple fact that the damn thing is always breaking?”
“It has a touch-sensitive screen,” I reminded him. “Problems are bound to happen with something that sophisticated. It’s gotta be user error. Everyone knows the general public aren’t exactly the sharpest tools in the shed.”
“The service calls for that beast,” Daryl continued, “are astronomically high. If a tech comes walking through my door, then I’m automatically charged $400.”
I almost snotted my soda, “You’re kidding! That’s highway robbery!”
“There are no authorized service centers in Pomme Valley,” Daryl explained. “The closest qualified tech who works on these machines lives in Medford, and he’s usually so booked up that I have to call in the tech from Bend.”
“That’s insane.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Daryl assured me. He walked over to the back of the soda machine and pointed at a series of tubes that were snaking out from beneath the machine. The bundle of tubes disappeared through a grating sunk into the tiled floor of the cafe. “You have to think about the multitude of flavors involved here. These things can produce well over a hundred different flavor varieties. That means bags and bags of syrup.”
“Which means you need a place to store them,” I surmised with a groan.
Daryl nodded, “That’s right. I have a corner of my storeroom dedicated to keeping all those bags separate and clean. Oh! I shouldn’t forget the mess involved with the syrup bags. If you make the slightest mess, then you have to clean it up. Immediately. The last thing you want on your floor is a sugary substance.”
“Which would attract bugs,” I guessed.
If Daryl was trying to talk me out of this, then he was doing a damn fine job. I’m not a fan of bugs, and I know Jillian sure as hell hates bugs just as much as I did. Probably more. Jillian Cooper is a smart, classy woman who has lived in PV her entire life. She and I enjoy spending time with one another, so much so that I’ll make up excuses to drop by her store, Cookbook Nook. And no, before you ask, we’re not at the boyfriend/girlfriend stage. I don’t think either one of us is quite ready for that.
“They’re messy,” Daryl confirmed. “There are leaks all the time.”
“You’d think they’d find a better way to transport the syrup to you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the bags,” Daryl told me. “It’s my employees. They’re sloppy. They don’t care if the hoses aren’t tightened, or if there’s a teeny tiny leak dripping onto the floor. I’m telling you, Mr. Anderson; avoid the headache. Don’t do it.”
“And just buy my soda here, right?”
“You’re one of my most loyal regulars,” Daryl told me, with a smile. “Just think of all the teenagers I’d have to lay off if you stopped coming in here every afternoon.”
“Ha ha. I’m not in here that much, am I?”
Daryl grinned at me, “Every single one of my employees knows who you are. There’s usually a bet to see which of them correctly guesses which flavor you’ll choose this time around.”
“And how do you know which flavor I end up choosing?” I asked, confused. “It’s not like I tell anyone which combination I picked out.”
“Are you kidding me? This thing is all computerized. It tells me which syrups are used the most, which ones are running low, and so on. And yes, there are detailed reports you can run to see which choices are the most common. Your arrival time is noted and the manager on duty will then check the machine’s logs to see who got it right. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Anderson. After all, you are a celebrity around here.”
“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or annoyed,” I truthfully told the friendly store owner. After a few moments, I shrugged. “Oh, well. It could be worse, I suppose. How good are your employees? Has anyone correctly guessed yet?”
Daryl turned and pointed at a red-headed teenage girl.
“That’s Amanda. She’s won the most wagers so far.”
Upon hearing her name, Amanda looked up from where she was cleaning the counter. She saw the two of us looking at her and gave us a smile and a wave. Then Daryl pointed at another teen, this time at a wiry-looking kid with dark brown hair and a dark complexion.
“That’s Alex. He’s typically the runner-up. He and Amanda are always trying to outdo the other.”
“Glad to see I’m a source of entertainment around here,” I chuckled. “Okay, I’m outta here. Gotta pick up some doggie treats at the bakery.”
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Anderson.”
Snot. I wasn’t that predictable, was I?
Returning to my Jeep, I saw that Sherlock had curled up in the front passenger seat – snoring – while Watson was stretched out on the back seat. She had assumed her sleeping pose as well, which I had nicknamed the ‘Superman’. It consisted of having both short hind legs splayed behind her, and her two front paws up against her sides.
Sherlock lifted his head as I took my seat.
“Still no luck, boy. I swear, I’m gonna find a way to get one of those things yet. I don’t care how big of a mess they make.”
Sherlock gave me an inscrutable look and yawned.
“Want to head to the bakery and get some bagel bits? I know you guys love those treats.”
Whoops. I had said the ‘t’ word. I should’ve known better than that. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed that Watson had already regained her feet and was panting contentedly. In fact, I swear she was smiling at me. Sherlock rose to a sitting position and watched me like a hawk.
“Farmhouse Bakery is just down the street. We’re close. I’ll just stop in and pick up a few bags, okay?”
The bakery was packed full of people. I checked my watch. I don’t know why. I haven’t worn one for years. Automatic habit, I guess. Since staring at epidermal cells is a very ineffective way of telling time, I pulled out my cell. It was just after 1pm. On a Wednesday. Honestly, I was surprised that many people were still on lunch break. Then again, one look at the spotless store, with its display cases filled with appealing pastries, croissants, and donuts, proved you didn’t need an excuse to stop by a bakery like this. Your nose would typically overrule any objection you might have.
I admired the wall behind the cashier, which held bins of different flavored bagels, and smiled. One of the pastimes I was really starting to enjoy was hanging out with Jillian on a daily basis. She loved her sourdough bagels. I was surprised to learn I really liked the everything bagel. Therefore, I was constantly stopping by to pick up our favorites. I know people were starting to talk, and I know many times, whenever Jillian’s name was spoken aloud, mine would follow shortly thereafter, but I didn’t care. I was starting to develop strong feelings for her, and I was pretty sure Jillian felt the same way I did.
I think that freaked out both of us. Our parents are thrilled, believe you me. Both of our parents wanted to see us get together, and let’s be honest about this. We both probably will. However, we aren’t there yet. Jillian lost her husband to cancer several years ago, while I lost my wife, you may recall, to a car accident just last year. Some wounds just take time to heal.
And others, I thought, as I eyed the fresh bagels stacked high in their wire-rack bins, might be healing faster than I would have thought possible. I purchased a baker’s dozen, added a tub of plain cream cheese, and then almost forgot to add a few bags of the bagel bits for the dogs.
As I turned to go, I couldn’t help but notice the number of familiar faces I saw in the bakery. Some were milling about, trying to decide what to purchase. Others were sitting at the booths lining the windows, overlooking Main Street. There, trying to decide which donuts to purchase, was Spencer “Woody” Woodson, owner of Toy Closet, PV’s one and only hobby shop. Over there, by the bread rack, was one older gentleman I was eager to avoid. I had to turn my back, as though I was checking out the pastry displays, in order to avoid catching Willard Olson’s eye.
Willard was the Post Master for PV’s Post Office. He was also president of the Northwest Nippers dog club. He had been actively inquiring when Sherlock and Watson would start attending the meetings, since he had cornered me a few months ago in the post office and made me join. He was an odd duck. Willard was single, eccentric, and owner of the worst toupee I had ever seen in my life.
Just then, I saw the Alex kid from Wired Coffee & Café walk through the door. He nodded at me and moved to the counter to make his selections. Well, I guess it was lunchtime. In line in front of him was a lady I recognized as a cashier from Gary’s Grocery.
“This is definitely a small town,” I muttered.
But do you know what? I was really starting to like that simple fact. Sure, I hadn’t cared for it when I first moved to town, but, then again, that might have been because the townsfolk had believed I was a murderer. Humph. Water under the bridge. I was pretty well-liked now, but I’m certain that was because of all the wine I’ve given away. Giving away booze has a tendency to make friends.
Cider Fest was approaching. It was the time of year when all the apple farms around PV would open their doors to the general public and start selling their wares. Fresh fruit, produce, jams, jellies, pies, and so on. Trust me, it was a smorgasbord to die for. As you may have guessed, it was also my favorite time of year.
A flash of purple caught my eye, causing me to hesitate by the front entrance. Purple was Jillian’s favorite color. Some part of me thought it might be her. Actually, I had hoped it was her. I had last seen Jillian a few days ago, when we had gone out to dinner at her favorite restaurant. Eager to see if it was her, I stepped back into the store.
It was! Jillian was wearing a dark purple sweatshirt, which was what had caught my eye. Hmm, this was strange. She was coming out of the STAFF ONLY door, with a woman who had short, curly blond hair, whom I knew to be one of Jillian’s best friends, Taylor Adams. Taylor just so happened to be the owner of the bakery.
What caught my attention was the look each of the women had on their faces. Taylor looked to be upset. In fact, I could see puffiness around her eyes. Had she been crying? Jillian was holding her friend’s hand and was giving her a sympathetic look. There was some type of hushed conversation going on, but what it was, I didn’t know. I couldn’t hear a thing.
Both women suddenly looked up at the same time and stared straight at me. Jillian broke into a smile. Taylor, however, looked embarrassed, and ducked back through the employee door and disappeared.
Jillian walked straight over to me and gave me a welcoming hug.
“Zachary! What a pleasant surprise! What are you doing here?”
I held up the smaller of the two bags I was holding and wiggled it.
“Doggy bagel bits. Almost ran out of these. I didn’t want a canine mutiny on my hands, so here I am. Hey, is everything okay with you two?”
Jillian’s face instantly sobered.
“Yes. Everything is fine, thank you for asking. Taylor needed some advice, and a sympathetic shoulder to lean on. I offered her mine.”
“That was nice of you.”
“She and I are very good friends.”
“I’ll bet you could say that about most people here in town, couldn’t you?” I asked her, certain I already knew the answer.
Jillian shrugged and nodded her head yes. Having been born and raised in Pomme Valley, Jillian had lived in this town her whole life. So yes, she was bound to know a few of the townsfolk.
“How much did you hear?” Jillian suddenly asked, as she dropped her voice down to a whisper. “Damn. I thought we had kept our voices low enough so no one could hear anything.”
“I didn’t hear a thing,” I confirmed.
“Then why did you want to know if everything was okay?”
“Because I took one look at the two of you and knew something was up. Taylor looked upset. Her eyes were red and swollen, suggesting she had been recently crying. And you… well, you had this caring look on your face, so I figured there might be something wrong. I wanted to know, because if there was, then maybe I could help.”
Jillian slipped her arm through mine and steered me towards the exit.
“That’s awful sweet of you, but there’s nothing you can do. Taylor is experiencing some financial stress, and…”
“I could help with that,” I interrupted, which earned me another smile.
Jillian patted my arm, “That’s very kind of you. I’ll be sure to pass it along to Taylor. However, I’ve already extended an offer.”
“I can’t believe the bakery isn’t doing well,” I murmured, as I glanced around the busy store.
“She’s doing quite well here,” Jillian agreed. “Too well. That’s the problem. One of her refrigerated display cases is on the fritz. She doesn’t have the extra money to get it repaired. So I was talking to her about her choices.”
“Is it repairable?”
Jillian shook her head, “No, I’m afraid not. She’s already had a tech out to look at it. Looks like the motor is shot and the electronics have been fried. If I had to guess, I’d say someone didn’t quite close the door all the way and the display case struggled to maintain the preset temp. Unfortunately, it failed, and several of her frozen desserts thawed, which caused them to melt, which then led to ice cream dripping onto parts of that motor which never should have been bothered.”
“Oh, man. That sucks.”
“Here she comes. Put on your happy face, Zachary.”
“Jillian, what do you think about... oh, hi Zack. I should’ve realized you’d still be around. What’s that? You bought bagel bits? I told you before that any and all doggie treats are on the house. I’ll see to it you get credited.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said as I shook my head. “A few bucks aren’t gonna break me. Besides, unless you’re prepared to accept free wine from me, I plan on paying for everything I take out of here.”
Taylor suddenly smiled and closed her eyes, “Mmm. Syrah, from Lentari Cellars. Don’t tempt me. Fine. You win.”
“Well played,” Jillian whispered in my ear.
“Thank you,” I whispered back.
“Listen, Jillian,” Taylor began. “You promised me you’d help me decide which of my newest batch of muffins I should permanently add to my menu. Have you made a decision yet?”
My ears perked up at this. New muffin flavors? I raised a hand.
“World’s best guinea pig right here. I’ll grab a booth. Send ‘em out and I’ll tell you which ones you need to keep. Just be prepared to keep all of them.”
Both Taylor and Jillian laughed.
“Silly man,” Taylor quipped. “Decisions are for women.”
Jillian snorted and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“I see my talents will be wasted here,” I grumbled. I did offer the girls a smile. “Fine. At least tell me what the flavors were.”
Jillian nodded, “Let’s see. The first muffin Taylor presented to me was blueberry sour cream. The berries were perfectly ripe and the sour cream added the perfect amount of moisture without adding any tang from the cream.”
“You’re killing me, Smalls,” I moaned.
Ignoring my reference to a beloved family baseball movie, Jillian continued, “Then there was the one with the red currants and cream cheese. While good, it wasn’t my favorite.”
“Why not?” Taylor asked, without looking up. She was busy writing notes on a notepad.
“Something about those two flavors didn’t work for me.”
“Noted. What about the third? Oregon Daylight?”
“Oregon Daylight?” I repeated, confused. “What flavor is that?”
“Orange and gooseberries.”
“Gooseberries? I’ve heard of them but have no idea what they taste like.”
“It’s a berry that’s native to Oregon,” Jillian answered. She slowly nodded. “They have a moderate taste, but I should warn you about something.”
Taylor was suddenly concerned, “What? What is it?”
“Gooseberries have to be eaten in moderation. If someone consumes too many berries, then you’ll more than likely end up with a bad stomach ache.”
“Good to know,” Taylor nodded, as she continued to scribble in her notebook. “Jillian, what would you use?”
Jillian became pensive and tapper her fingers on the table. She glanced over at me, and then back at Taylor, “I have it. I’d use huckleberries. I saw a fresh batch of red huckleberries at Gary’s Grocery yesterday. I’ll bet they’d go great in a muffin.”
Taylor snapped her fingers, “Red huckleberries! They have a sweet/tart taste about them, and are high in vitamin C. Good idea!”
“Huckleberries,” I chortled.
“What?” Taylor asked, bewildered.
“I’m your huckleberry,” I chuckled.
I had two sets of female eyes staring blankly at me.
“Oh, come on! Haven’t either of you seen Tombstone? It was a fantastic movie! Val Kilmer’s performance as Doc Holliday was Oscar-worthy!”
Jillian shook her head, “I don’t really care for westerns.”
“Neither do I,” Taylor agreed. “Know what I do like? Romance movies. Oh, to see and experience two people in love is truly magical. It… uh, oh. I think we lost Zack.”
I was mimicking a snoring person, complete with sound effects. Jillian punched me in my gut. Not hard, mind you, but enough to get my attention.
“Are you awake now?”
I rubbed my belly and sheepishly grinned. Taylor looked over at me.
“What’s your favorite flavor muffin, Zack?”
I sank down into a booth and thoughtfully stroked my chin, “Ooo, what a good question. Let’s see. Anything with chocolate is always good. Oh! And blueberries. And cinnamon! Anything with cinnamon can only be a plus. Umm, you might as well add… what? What are you two smiling at?”
Both Taylor and Jillian appeared to be on the verge of bursting out laughing.
“Did I say something funny?”
Taylor smiled and added another note, “Zachary loves muffins. Any muffins. Got it.”
I frowned and shook my head. Taylor noticed as she was reaching for her coffee.
“No? That’s not right? What flavors don’t you like, because so far, it sounds like you like them all?”
Taylor took a drink as I considered my answer.
“Boy muffins.”
“Huh?” Jillian asked, puzzled. “What are ‘boy muffins’? I’ve never heard of them.”
“I only like girl muffins,” I clarified, as a smile spread across my face. I was really enjoying the girls’ confusion.
Jillian looked at Taylor, who shrugged and sipped on her coffee, “I think you need to clarify, Zachary. What do you mean by that?”
“You know, don’t you? Are you really gonna make me say it? Fine. I can’t stand boy muffins. That is to say, muffins with nuts.”
Taylor choked on her coffee and hurriedly reached for a napkin. Jillian’s eyes widened in shock as she stared at me. Finally, after a few moments, her head began to shake and the corners of her mouth turned upwards in a smile.
“Zachary Michael, you’re incorrigible. Taylor, are you okay?”
The bakery store owner finished mopping up her spilled coffee and grinned at me.
“I like you, Zack. You make me laugh. I’ve never thought about muffins in that way before, and I’m not sure I ever want to again.”
I snickered loudly, which caused Jillian to fire another concerned look my way.
“So,” Taylor continued, as she sat down at the same booth I was using, “of the three flavors you heard Jillian talk about, which one would be your favorite?”
“Without tasting them first? Well, based on what I’ve heard, I’d choose the blueberry one. It sounds fantastic.”
“Thank you, Zack. You, too, Jillian. You guys have been a big help. Especially you, Jillian. And you know why.”
Jillian nodded thoughtfully and remained silent. My cell phone chose that time to start ringing. A quick check of the display had me grinning.
“Hey Vance. What’s up, buddy? Are we still on for bowling tonight? You promised me you’d show me a few tips. I swear I’m gonna beat Jillian yet.”
“I’m going to have to take a rain check, pal.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Not really, no. I’ll probably be tied up for the rest of the night working this case.”
“Oh? Can you tell me anything about it?”
“The only thing I can say at this time is that I’m heading out to a 10-54.”
“A10-54? What’s that?”
“A possible dead body.”