Case of the Unlucky Emperor, page 7
“I’m looking for my niece,” I began, which instantly had both of my female companions turning to look at me. “I received an email from her a while back, and I was relieved to hear she was okay. However, her messages stopped quite abruptly, and it has my family concerned. I know she’s somewhere in town, but I just don’t know where. Her email address ended with gci.com, so I know she’s a customer here. Is there anything you can do to help me out?”
“What’s her email address?” Ginny asked.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have that,” I confessed. “And before you say anything, yes, I should have written it down.”
“You came all the way out here without at least one of her messages printed out?” Ginny suspiciously asked. “How did you think you were going to track her down?”
I held up the piece of paper Chris had handed me the day before.
“Well, I have an IP address, if it helps.”
Ten minutes later, we had an actual physical address.
“I can’t tell you how impressed I am,” Jillian told me, once we had left the internet provider’s office and were headed back to the van. “How’d you come up with a story like that so fast?”
“I just asked myself what type of story I’d have to hear in order to get me to be willing to help. It’s the first thing that came to mind.”
“Shannon, do you know where we can find Merrill Street?” Jillian asked.
Our guide took the slip of paper and studied the address. “No, but I’m sure my phone can find it. Let’s see. Merrill … here it is. It’s north of us. According to this, it’s less than five minutes from here.”
“Walking?’ I asked, surprised.
“No, driving.”
Turns out, we weren’t as lucky as I had hoped. The address turned out to be a small rental condo, and it had been cleared out. Very recently, from what we could tell by looking through the windows. There were a few empty boxes stacked along the wall. A threadbare couch was visible in the front room. Coat hangers had been scattered across the floor, as if someone had rapidly yanked their clothing off their holders.
“Now what?” I wanted to know. “Our one lead just hit a dead-end.”
Shannon perked up. “I have an idea. It may be a long shot, but I think since this is such a small town, we may have a chance.”
“What’s your idea?” Jillian asked.
Shannon pointed south, toward town.
“You’ve seen the size of Sitka. There are only a few bars here. I say we go down there and start with the most popular one, and work our way down the list if need be. Everyone around here loves their favorite bars. It’s the ultimate place to hang out and socialize.”
“I’m assuming we’re still trying to keep CCCP’s name out of this, right?” I added.
Shannon nodded. “Right.”
The first place we found was Burt’s Old Time Saloon. It wasn’t hard to miss, seeing how we walked by it earlier in the day. We were back on Lincoln Street, and as we approached the hanging wooden sign, we all heard loud, raucous laughter coming from within.
“I think I’ll stay out here,” Jillian said, as she took the leashes from me. “You and Shannon go on in.”
Nodding, I gave my wife a quick peck on her cheek and held the door open for Shannon, who oddly enough, blushed bright red before hurrying inside.
Burt’s Old Time Saloon was the epitome of a dive bar. Two pool tables were to the left, as you came inside. Four booths were opposite from the pool tables. Directly ahead were a number of wood hexagonal tables, each with four rickety chairs scattered around it. Against the far wall, straight ahead, was the counter. A young, bearded fellow was there, drying a set of beer mugs and watching us intently.
“Afternoon,” the bartender said, pleasantly enough. “Can I get you two something? Beer? Glass of wine?”
“Do you make your own here?” I asked.
“Afraid not. I’d love to someday. You’re not from around here, are you?”
Shannon raised a hand. “I am, he isn’t.”
“Where’re you from, buddy?” I was asked.
“Oregon. Probably a little place you’ve never heard of before. Pomme Valley?”
The bartender’s eyes widened. “What are the odds of that happening? I have heard about a little town in Oregon. Something to do with a couple of those low-rider dogs the Queen of England loved. In fact, I see two of them just outside. Wait. Wait just a damn minute. If you’re gonna tell me those two are who I think they are, well, you just got yourself a free beer on the house.”
“Sherlock and Watson?” I ventured, giving my new friend a smile.
“Holy crap! I’ve seen those dogs on TV!”
“With the Queen? Yep, that’s them.”
“Yo, Sheila! Get out here! You ain’t gonna believe this!”
An Inuit woman about the same age as Shannon appeared, wiping her hands on a towel.
“Whatcha need, Matt?”
A finger was pointed my way.
“What’s the name of those two dogs you were telling me about last week? The ones who found some missing jewels and were on TV, meeting the queen?”
“Those corgis? Sherlock and Watson, why?”
Matt’s finger swiveled until he was pointing outside.
“That’s them, right there.”
“Get out of here. That’s not them.”
“They really are,” I offered. I held a hand out to the lady. “Zack Anderson. My wife, Jillian, is outside, holding the leashes.”
“Get outta town,” Sheila scoffed. “There’s no way you can convince me that …”
At this point, Matt thrust his phone in Sheila’s hands. On the display was a familiar sight. Well, it was familiar to me. Jillian and I were exchanging vows, in Westminster Abbey. There, clearly visible, was the late Queen of England.
Sheila’s eyes widened as they stared at the screen, then up at me, then back at the phone’s display.
“It’s you! It’s really you! You … you’re famous! What’re you doing here, in Alaska? A-ha! You’re workin’ a case!”
Oh, crap on a cracker. Stick with the phony story, Zack, I ordered myself.
“Actually, I was looking for a friend of mine,” I began. “He was renting a place up on Merrill. It was a condo, I believe. However, I lost contact with him and thought I’d head up here. You know, to do a wellness check.”
Shannon tapped my arm. She leaned forward, intent on passing some information to me in a confidential manner. Intrigued, I lowered my head.
“And if the person you’re looking for happens to be a woman?” Shannon quietly asked.
Hmm, good point.
“Got a picture of your friend?” the bartender asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever been asked to pick out someone based on where they live before.”
“I understand,” I said, thinking fast. “I was hoping that he’d stand out in a small town like this.”
“Do you know for certain he came here?” the barkeep asked.
I shrugged. “This place is popular and Sitka is small. I’d like to think he would have stopped by a few times.”
“What’s the timeframe involved?”
I looked at Shannon. “What, no more than two months?”
Shannon nodded. “Sounds right.”
Matt stroked his beard and looked thoughtful. “Well, you’re right. We don’t get many outside people here, aside from tourist season. So, in order to be noticed by us, this person would have had to come in here more than once, or else do something to attract our attention. You follow?”
I sighed. “I see where you’re going with this. That’s okay. I’ll keep looking for him.”
“Two months,” Matt repeated, thinking. He looked at Shannon. “Well, now that I think about it, I do remember you coming in here a few times.”
Shannon nodded. “You’ve got a great selection of local beers.”
Sheila wandered by again and overheard the comment.
“We’ve got the best selection in town. Mr. Anderson, you’ve got to try Tatooine.”
Me being the Stars Wars fan that I am, had to comment.
“You guys have a beer named after Tatooine?”
“Tatooine Sunrise. Has a pinch of citrus and a little pine.”
“It’s not bitter, is it?” I asked. “I’m not a fan of bitter beers.”
Matt set a small glass in front of me that had several ounces of a light, golden beer. It was almost the same color as a pale orange juice.
“Well?” Matt prompted. Sheila was nearby, listening intently.
“It’s actually quite good,” I decided, smacking my lips. “Could I have a second glass? I want my wife to give it a try. Oh, Shannon? Have you tried this?”
“I have,” Shannon confirmed. “I really like it, too.”
Jillian came inside, and she enjoyed it more than I did, which isn’t too surprising. She always told me her taste buds were more refined than this bottom feeder.
“We have a hit,” I said, as I returned to the bar and handed the empty glass over. “Do you ship your beer?”
Matt nodded eagerly. “We do. What would you like?”
“Let’s go with two cases of the Tatooine, thanks.”
“We have about five other beers on tap,” Sheila reminded me.
“With Star Wars names?” I asked, eager to add to my extensive collection of various sci-fi memorabilia.
“Oh, er, no.”
“This will do for now, thanks.”
While my order was being processed, and after I gave them a credit card to use, I heard the door open behind me. Thinking it might be Jillian, either changing her mind or wanting to change the order, I turned to look. A group of four locals entered, each around the same age as me, and claimed a table. Three of them were wearing rubber rain bibs, and the fourth wore a long-sleeved blue flannel shirt tucked into a pair of worn jeans. Sheila hurried over and took their orders.
“They got no business tellin’ us what we can and can’t do,” one of the men grumbled. “I don’t care if they are subsidizin’ us. I’ve been makin’ my livin’ on the sea for all my life. I got no plans on stoppin’ now.”
“How long is the ban?” the guy wearing jeans asked.
“Through spring of next year.”
Curses were bandied about.
Now, ordinarily, I would have tuned out this particular conversation. However, what they said next stopped me in my tracks.
“I’m just so damn tired of hearing how more and more areas are now off limits. How much is too much? At this rate, we won’t be allowed to set our traps anywhere. It’s a damn conspiracy, I tell you. What are you lookin’ at, fella?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but did you just say the waters you’re fishing are getting more and more restrictive?”
“Crabbing,” I was sternly corrected.
“Sorry. Did you say they canceled the season? Why would they do that?”
“We had a decent season this summer,” Mr. Blue Jeans told me. “Because it’s just so-so, many of us, myself included, are forced to work outside our normal three month season. We ain’t got no choice, you got me? And because of that, some fancy pants smartass thinks an extended season will hurt the population.”
“I’ve seen the television shows,” I protested. “That was something I never realized. Female lobsters are identified, marked, and tossed back. Is it the same for crabs?”
Blue Jeans nodded. “Gotta keep the population up. Harvestin’ females are frowned upon. Word is, they’re gonna make it illegal ’round here. Not yet, though. What do they think we are, idiots? Just because some jabbering dillhole thinks the population is low and needs time to rebound? What a load of crap! I seen what it looks like out there …”
“… see,” I whispered, knowing full well my wife would say the same thing if she had witnessed that grammatical atrocity.
“… and we are in no way worried about runnin’ out of crab. Snow crab numbers are higher than they’ve ever been.”
“How often do you guys lose access to certain patches of water?” I asked, hoping to steer the conversation to a more pleasant topic.
“Happens more’n ya think, pal,” one of the other men said.
I cleared my throat. “Like if a certain organization opens up a facility and …”
“I was just beginnin’ to like you, friend,” Blue Jeans muttered, growing angry. “Don’t tell me you’re from that damn penguin place.”
Sensing a growing hostility in the fishermen, I raised both hands and plastered my most harmless smile on my face. “Hey, no worries, guys. I’m not. I’m just a tourist here. Look, I’m buying a couple of cases of Alaskan beer for me and my friends back home.”
The dark, accusatory looks vanished.
“Thanks for supportin’ Burt’s,” Blue Jeans said, after a few moments had passed. He promptly turned to his companions and began complaining about something else.
I took the receipt for my beer and hurried Shannon out the door.
“Is everything okay?” my wife asked, once we made it outside.
“I think we have a new line of inquiry to check out,” I said. I inclined my head at the bar. “You saw those fishermen who went in after me?”
“Yes.”
“Something we didn’t consider was how CCCP’s arrival could affect the local fishing industry.”
Jillian’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of that. Excellent work, Zachary!”
“The water is a lot of people’s life-blood,” Shannon explained. “They make their living out there. I can also tell you that Dr. Rozhkov negotiated with the city to acquire some water rights. I can’t believe I didn’t think about that until now.”
“The fishing industry,” I repeated, nodding. “Hmm, you know what? I think it might be time to take a walk along the waterfront.”
Shannon nodded. “Good idea. I’ll head back to CCCP and see if I can find confirmation that we can legally prevent anyone from fishing in specific areas.”
FIVE
“Did you think there’d be that many of them? I had no idea, Zachary. And look how small they are! It’s nothing more than a sardine tin with wings.”
“Well, relax. We’re not planning on going up in one of those sea planes. But, you’re right. There seems to be a lot of them, right? They must have a high demand for them here, or there wouldn’t be that many.”
Jillian shrugged. “Tourists. I guess that’s one way to go fishing. Rent one of those planes and go to some remote area. So, what are we looking for?”
“Someone to talk to,” I answered. “We need someone who works on the water. I want to get an idea what the townsfolk really think about our friends at CCCP, hopefully without giving away too much information.”
“I guess if we find someone who isn’t on speaking terms with CCCP, then we’d have a lead to investigate,” Jillian said.
I nodded. “Exactly. Look, there’s a whole row of fishing boats. Maybe we can find someone in there?”
“There are so many. How are we supposed to figure out which one we should approach?”
After a few moments, I came to a stop, which forced my little group to do the same. I pointed at Sherlock and Watson.
“I say we let those two do what they do best: discover the answer for us. Guys? We need a friendly person to talk to, preferably one who won’t get tight-lipped on us. What do you say? Think you can help us out?”
Both corgis turned to look up at me. Sherlock snorted once, glanced at his packmate, and then went after an itch in his ear. Finished, he rose to his feet, sniffed noses with Watson, and started pulling us east, on Lincoln Street. We walked by familiar shops, bars, and restaurants. After all, we had just walked along this very street yesterday. We passed a large gift shop and suddenly, Crescent Harbor appeared on our right.
The harbor had quite a collection of potential berths for the locals. Those directly before us were longer, which meant they could handle bigger boats. The largest I could see was a white pleasure craft that was probably in the neighborhood of thirty to forty feet long. Similarly sized vessels lined the pier on either side, with the largest up front and the smallest at the end. The next pier to the left had a similar setup, with slightly smaller piers, vessels, and so on down the line as one progressed farther east. By the time we made it to the seventh pier, we were looking at tiny, two-seater dinghies that were probably no longer than a dozen feet in length.
I was about to ask the dogs what we were doing here, since the harbor was half-empty, and the boats that were here looked like they were anything but commercially operated crafts. That’s when I felt a couple of tugs. Looking down, I saw that the corgis were both standing perfectly still. In fact, they were watching a small, green vessel approach. It had just passed the sea wall and was slowly cruising along the piers until it came to the sixth pier, second from the end. Whoever was piloting the boat had to be an expert, as the tiny vessel seemingly turned on a dime and then backed in, all without so much as touching the mooring posts.
Sherlock and Watson wiggled with excitement. An outside observer would probably think that the dogs were waiting for their owner to return home and I was nothing more than a glorified dog walker. I glanced at Jillian, anxious to see if I should continue humoring the dogs. My wife nodded once and shrugged. All righty then. Let’s see who’s on that boat.
We slowly crossed the covered walkway leading to the piers and turned left, to head toward number six. As we walked, I gave the dogs a little extra slack in the leash, curious as to what they’d do with the extra maneuverability. What’d they do? Run to the end of their leashes and bark like maniacs at a group of long-tailed ducks, who were just trying to take a break from swimming. The birds squawked angrily as they were forced to dive for cover. Sherlock and Watson stared at the water a few moments before I saw them bunch their muscles.
“Oh, absolutely not. You two can remove that particular thought from your puppy brains. You will not be jumping into that water, thank you very much. Sherlock, let it go, pal. They’re just ducks. Leave ’em alone.”
