A Merrier Terrier Christmas

Bill O’Shea parked his Mazda in the lot below the Mountain Inn and glanced at his passenger, Cindy Quintrell, a neighbor and good friend. It was eight o’clock on a Saturday morning in early December.

“I appreciate you helping us decorate for the Snow Ball,” Cindy said.

“You bet.”

Cindy had sandy blond hair and a cute figure that made Bill’s heart quicken whenever he allowed his thoughts to wander. The two of them had become an on-again off-again couple soon after he moved to Wintergreen the previous summer. Lately, their relationship had seemed more off than on, so when Cindy asked Bill to help the dance committee decorate the ballroom, he cleared his calendar in a flash.

Barren oak and hickory trees surrounded the parking lot, but the Mountain Inn was decorated for the holidays with lights, garlands, and other trimmings. They crossed the driveway to reach the inn, and Bill noticed Teddy DeAngelis walking toward them with Sport, his West Highland Terrier. Sport struggled against his leash to greet them, and Bill offered his hand for sniffing. Sport wagged his tail furiously, and Bill rubbed behind the Westie’s ears.

After exchanging greetings with Teddy, Bill said, “Sport is such a good dog. I bet he’s the merriest terrier on the mountain.”

“Could be,” said Teddy. “He certainly gets his share of attention.” Teddy was a tall, thin man with gray hair, who had retired to Wintergreen after an insurance career.

“Are you coming to the Snow Ball, Teddy?” said Cindy.

“Yes, I’ll be there. Although, frankly, dancing’s not my thing.”

Bill nodded. Bill and his ex-wife, Wanda, had taken ballroom dancing lessons in their forties. Bill hadn’t danced at all in a few years and was nervous about it, but not so nervous that he wouldn’t ask Cindy to join him on the dance floor. Oh, no.

He and Cindy waved bye to Teddy and Sport and entered the lower level of the Mountain Inn. Bill guessed the ballroom had space for two hundred guests plus a dance floor and a stage for the band.

Five other volunteers were on hand to help out, four women and one man. Being artistically challenged, Bill and the other man were assigned low-skilled tasks such as lugging boxes and rearranging furniture. Cindy met with the resort’s catering manager to make sure expectations regarding food and beverages were aligned. A small advance team for the band arranged equipment and performed preliminary sound checks. After working for two hours, the committee took a break and sat at a round table.

“So, why is it called the Snow Ball?” Bill asked the table at large. It was far too early in the season to rely on snowfall. The weather had been warm on that mountain that week, but temperatures were expected to fall below freezing overnight.

A woman with gray hair and a cute nose raised her eyebrows and then glanced at the table’s glass centerpiece, which was filled with white indoor snowballs four inches in diameter. Bill picked up one of the balls. It was airy and lightweight but firm enough for him to toss from one hand to the other. No one responded to his question directly, but Bill could guess the answer.

After another thirty minutes, the team finished their work, and Bill approached Cindy to see if she was ready to leave.

“I need to see the catering manager about one more thing,” she said. “Can you wait ten minutes?”

“Sure. I’ll wander around a bit and meet you in the lobby.”

“Great.”

Outside behind the Mountain Inn, the temperature had climbed into the mid-forties. Puffy clouds floated in an azure sky. A raven cawed loudly from the high branches of a nearby tree. Bill stretched his arms, breathed crisp air deep into his lungs, and was glad he no longer lived in a city. He strolled to the edge of the brick patio to observe the view. Condo buildings—including his own—lined a high ridge on the left. The barren ski slope before him was covered in brown grass, and the idle chairlifts waited patiently for ski season to arrive.

Off to the left, near the Timbers condos, Teddy DeAngelis trotted behind the far side of a building. Seconds later, he came back again, then frantically glanced left and right. He seemed terribly agitated. Bill’s heartbeat accelerated, and he began marching toward Teddy. Teddy shook his hands in desperation, and Bill ran to reach him.

Bill took several deep breaths, then said, “What’s the matter, Teddy?”

Teddy’s head was on a swivel. His eyes searched behind the shrubs around the Timbers condo buildings.

“I . . . I can’t find Sport.”

“Sport? When did you last see him?”

“Soon after I saw you and Cindy out front. We walked to Discovery Ridge and back, and then I let him off his leash to play on the slope. He usually runs around a bit and then sniffs at the grass. Phyllis Spooner came by, and we chatted for a few minutes. But when I looked for Sport, he was gone.”

Oh, no. Not good. That was hours ago.

“Where’s Phyllis now?”

“She’s circling the main building. We’ve been searching for Sport all this time.”

“Wasn’t Sport wearing a GPS tracker?”

“Yes.” Teddy held his phone toward Bill. “I keep checking. The app says Sport is right here somewhere, but I can’t find him.”

Teddy’s chest heaved, and Bill touched his arm. “We’ll find Sport. Try to settle down. I’m worried you might faint.”

Teddy’s lip trembled. “I have to find him, Bill. I have to. He’s all I’ve got.”

“Okay. Let’s find Phyllis, and we’ll divide our efforts to cover more ground. He couldn’t have gone far.”

Teddy’s head hung low, and he covered his face with a hand.

At that moment, Phyllis Spooner came around the side of the closest Timbers’ building. Bill and Phyllis lived in the same condo building on the ridge. Phyllis waved and hustled toward them, but then something caught her eye. She stared at a bench placed for passersby to enjoy the view.

“Hey! Teddy. Bill. Look at this.”

Bill and Teddy hurried to join Phyllis. On the bench was a plain white envelope addressed in typed letters to Dog Owner.

Teddy’s eyes grew wide. He hesitantly reached for the letter.

“Let me do that, Teddy,” said Bill.

Bill did his best to open the letter without disturbing any fingerprints the dognapper had left behind. The culprit demanded five thousand dollars in twenty-dollar bills for the dog’s safe return. The writer provided further instructions. If Teddy involved the police or the press, he would never see his dog again. In printed letters below the typed text, the dognapper provided instructions to hide the money in a specific place in the women’s restroom during the Snow Ball that night. The letter also contained Sport’s GPS tracker.

Teddy collapsed on the bench. His face turned ashen, and his eyes lost focus.

Phyllis exchanged glances with Bill, shook her head, and touched Teddy’s arm.

“I have to go the bank,” said Teddy.

“Let’s think this through a minute,” said Bill.

“No, you read the letter. I have to get the money, or they’ll do something horrible to Sport.”

“Whoever took Sport is a professional,” said Bill. “This is a form letter, except for the instructions on where to leave the money. They’ve done this before.”

Teddy shook his head. “No. No police.”

Phyllis bit her lip and cast Bill a doubtful glance.

“Okay,” said Bill. “We’ll figure it out.”

Who could have done such a thing? Not a Wintergreen resident, surely. Bill had lived in Wintergreen for six months and never heard of a kidnapped dog. The criminal was a visitor who knew of the Snow Ball. But that left a long list of suspects. The mountain resort attracted hundreds of visitors every weekend, and the Snow Ball was a widely publicized event.

Teddy stood and said once again, “I have to go to the bank.”

“Let me go with you,” said Bill.

Dressed in a navy suit, a white shirt, black loafers, and a wildly colorful Christmas tie, Bill stood at the edge of the ballroom and surveyed the crowd. Nearly every seat at the two dozen round tables was occupied by a Wintergreen merrymaker, all of them talking, laughing, eating, and drinking. Happy hour had been a shoulder-to-shoulder affair, complete with wine, snacks, and the greeting of old friends.

Bill would have enjoyed it immensely if not for the dognapping incident. Bill had watched Teddy DeAngelis carefully to keep him from hovering outside the women’s restroom at the end of the hallway. Teddy now sat morosely at Bill’s table idly pushing salad around his plate, and Bill’s eyes scanned the room again. Was the culprit a partygoer, laughing at jokes, sipping wine, and waiting for the right moment to visit the restroom and retrieve the cash? Perhaps the dognapper was a member of the waitstaff. Or, one of the band members?

Hmm. Maybe not. They’re all men.

For the umpteenth time, Bill wished that Teddy had allowed him to bring in the Wintergreen police. The police would have scanned the community video feeds for persons carrying a dog or coming near the bench where the bad guy placed the ransom letter. The police might have already solved the crime.

But, Teddy had not wanted the police’s help, so Bill had driven Teddy to his bank in Waynesboro to withdraw the requested funds—two hundred and fifty twenty-dollar bills—plus an envelope big enough to carry them all. Back at Teddy’s condo in Three Ridges, Bill had insisted on taking a photo of each bill. Later, before getting ready for the ball, Bill had painstakingly entered every serial number into a spreadsheet.

Though it was too risky to post surveillance all night, Bill had recruited Phyllis Spooner and Cindy to take turns going into the women’s restroom every thirty minutes to check on the envelope.

Cindy touched his arm. She had returned from her first restroom check. “It’s still there,” she said.

Bill nodded. “There’s nothing else to do right now. We might as well try to enjoy the party.”

Cindy smiled. “I’m all for that.”

Despite the tension of the evening, Bill found himself enjoying the festivities. The food and wine were good, and the company was excellent. In addition to Teddy and Phyllis, two lively couples occupied their table. Bill had met the Platts and the Spiegels—year-round residents in Wintergreen—at other social gatherings. They were good company, particularly Emily Spiegel, who chattered almost nonstop and laughed the rest of the time. Thirty minutes into the meal, Phyllis left for her next check on the ransom money, but she returned with nothing to report.

After the main course, servers gave them a choice of cheesecake or German chocolate cake, an agonizing decision. Cindy and Bill decided to share one of each choice. Bill’s hands tingled. He and Cindy were getting along well, and the quality of the dinner music set suggested they were in for a real treat when the band switched to dance tunes later on. Bill took a healthy bite of German chocolate cake and savored the flavor. Then something soft and lightweight struck him on the forehead. Bill frowned. Across the table, Emily Spiegel did her best to keep a straight face but then broke out laughing. A cotton snowball lay next to Bill’s plate. He picked it up and threw it back at Emily. She howled. Another snowball soared above the table and hit the top of Bill’s head. Emily’s husband, Armand, was a good shot. Bill fired the snowball back at Armand, who caught it in the air and turned to throw it at a nearby table. A woman at that table threw it back, and Bill stood to fetch several more projectiles from the centerpiece. Soon, the ballroom air was filled with snowballs. Table occupants formed teams to attack neighboring tables. Couples fought at close range and laughed hysterically between volleys. Strangers joined forces to battle other strangers. Everyone enjoyed the fun.

Except for Teddy, who remained in his seat oblivious to the surrounding chaos. Bill approached Teddy and laid a hand on his shoulder. Teddy stared back vacantly.

“Don’t give up,” said Bill.

Teddy managed a small smile but didn’t appear hopeful.

Soon after, the snowball fight ebbed, and the band began a new set with a classic swing song.

“Would you care to dance with me?” said Cindy.

Bill raised his eyebrows, relieved, for he had feared that if he asked Cindy to dance, she would say no.

“You don’t have to,” Cindy said. “We can listen.”

“Oh, no,” said Bill. “I’m thrilled that you asked.”

Several couples made it to the dance floor before them. A few danced without touching. One pair tried a modified waltz, and another danced in a proper swing style. Facing Cindy, Bill placed his right hand on her back and held his left hand open at his side for her to grasp. After a somewhat awkward beginning, they were swing dancing. Cindy was nervous at first, and Bill guessed she had little experience, but he was a strong leader, and she learned fast. Soon, they were both smiling ear to ear and moving gracefully around the dance floor.

“My goodness,” she said after the song ended. “I had no idea you could swing dance.”

“I’m rusty,” he said.

“I would never know it.”

“Want to try another?” he said.

“Oh, yes. And another. And another.”

And so, for the rest of the evening, Bill and Cindy spent most of their time together on the dance floor. They danced with other partners twice but came back together for the next song. Bill had a difficult time keeping a foolish grin off his face. And when they waltzed, he didn’t even try.

After the band played their last encore, the lights turned bright, and the Snow Ball came to an end.

“Gosh, that was fun,” said Cindy.

“Absolutely,” said Bill.

He turned to leave the dance floor, but she pulled him toward her and kissed him. Not a casual grazing of the lips, no, this was a full-on romantic kiss, and Bill’s chest felt lighter than a soft summer breeze.

They returned to the table and found Teddy borderline desperate. Phyllis tried to console him without success.

“They never took the money,” said Teddy. “What does that mean, Bill?”

“Um. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Can you check again, Cindy?”

Cindy hurried away and returned in less than two minutes. “It’s gone. The money is gone.”

“Thank goodness,” said Teddy, as if losing five thousand was the best news he’d heard all year, but it only took him a few moments to switch gears. “But where is Sport? Where will they leave Sport?”

Yes, thought Bill. That is the right question. Where will they leave Sport, if they leave him at all? This is the challenge of not involving the police. The dognapper may never return Sport.

But Bill did not mention those concerns to Teddy. Instead, he said, “Let’s go check the bench area. The kidnapper used it once. Maybe they will again.”

After scurrying to the bench behind the Timbers condos, they found another envelope. The handwritten note instructed Teddy to come to the Market at seven o’clock the next morning, where he would find Sport tied to the railing.

Teddy expressed consternation at reading this note, but Bill took it as a good sign. A heartless dognapper would have never left post-ransom instructions. Instead, they would have abandoned Sport on the roadside miles away.

The next morning at five o’clock, Bill parked his car at the Laurelwood condos below the Market. The sky was clear and the air still. The temperature was in the high twenties, and Bill could see his breath clearly in the moonlight. He used a shortcut from Laurelwood to the Market and crept to the front porch. No Sport. Bill slipped back into the woods and watched the porch from behind an old maple tree. He was disappointed—but not surprised—that the only vehicle to approach the Market over the next two hours was Teddy’s minivan.

“What do we do now?” said Teddy, close to panicking once again.

“I’m not saying this is what happened,” said Bill, “but they left a note, which suggests the dognapper did want you to find Sport. After retrieving the money last night, they may have set Sport free somewhere near here and then driven away.”

“We should search the area,” said Teddy, then he yelled, “Sport!”

“Good idea,” said Bill. “But we should get some help. Maybe even the police.”

“No police, Bill.”

“Okay. Then we’ll call some friends.”

Within a half hour, they had a search party of nine, including Cindy, Phyllis Spooner, and five of Teddy’s friends who were also dog owners. Bill guessed that if the dognapper had freed Sport in the area, they would have left him close to the main road. Using that logic, they split into two groups and moved slowly down Wintergreen Drive with some searchers on the road’s shoulder and others in the nearby woods. By eight o’clock, the sound of Sport’s name echoed repeatedly through the leafless hardwood trees. It was a nearly hopeless search, of course, for even if the kidnapper had let Sport go here, Sport might have easily wandered beyond earshot. But what else were they to do?

While walking on the left shoulder, Bill spotted a Wintergreen police cruiser climbing the hill toward him. The car pulled up next to Bill, and the window opened. The driver was Bill’s friend, Officer Mitch Gentry.

“Morning, Mitch.”

“What’s going on, Bill?”

“Ah, nothing much.”

Mitch frowned. Someone called Sport’s name from the woods.

“Uh-huh,” said Mitch. “It sure looks like something. You got a search crew out here at eight o’clock.”

“Okay. Something is up. But I’m not supposed to tell you about it.”

“Now, that sounds ominous. You better bring me up to speed.”

Bill heaved a sigh. “All right. Give me an hour. Okay? I’ll tell you everything. I just need to get a guy on board.”

Mitch frowned again, scanned both sides of the road, and held up a single finger. “One hour. Got it? I’m coming back here in one hour, and you’re telling me the whole deal.”

“You bet. Maybe even less time.”

Mitch gunned the squad car up the hill, and Bill called to the nearest searcher in the woods to switch places. He angled farther into the trees and bushwhacked his way through dead leaves and uneven terrain. Bill paused often to yell Sport’s name and then listened for any kind of response. He came upon a boulder the size of a tiny house, maneuvered his way carefully around the downhill side, and called Sport’s name again.

The wind picked up suddenly and moaned as it blew through the trees.

Wait. Was that the wind or something else?

“Sport!”

Bill stopped, turned his ear downhill, and held his breath.

What was that?

“Sport!”

Something. That was definitely something.

Bill crashed downhill through the brush. A small branch scratched his face. He nearly stumbled on a rock.

“Sport!”

Bill jumped left to avoid a tree, galloped another fifty feet down the hill, and stopped to call Sport’s name again.

A delicate whimper sounded nearby. Bill frantically searched through the brush until he found the little Westie shivering in a pile of leaves.

“There you are, buddy.”

Sport stood on weak legs and struggled to wag his tail.

Bill picked Sport up and held him to his chest. The dog whimpered and pulled his front right paw into his body. Bill inspected the paw and found that dried blood had stained Sport’s fur. The Westie whimpered again.

“It’s all right, Sport. I got you. You’re safe now.”

Bill had never received a greater welcome than he did when he reached the road with the Westie in his arms. Teddy broke down and sobbed on Wintergreen Drive. The search team returned to their cars, marveled at their luck, and gradually dispersed. Back at his Mazda, Bill called Mitch and gave him the full story. Then he suggested they meet at the police station to discuss the next steps.

Four of them sat around the conference room table in the small police station at Wintergreen’s entrance: Acting Chief Alex Sharp, Patrolman Mitch Gentry, Communications Officer Krista Jackson, and Bill.

“Krista,” said Alex, “could one of our cameras have captured the culprit in the act?”

Krista rubbed the back of her neck. “It all depends on what path they took once they nabbed Sport. We don’t have a camera pointed at the bench behind the Timbers. But if they crossed the Mountain Inn’s entrance with Sport in their arms, we’ll get them. We might also capture them letting the dog out on Wintergreen Drive. Again, it depends on where they stopped. I’ve got to study the footage.”

“How about the entrance to the women’s room? Do we have a camera there?”

“No, but we have one in the hallway. We should have footage of people approaching the restroom area, but there’s also a back entrance nearby. Someone could get out without coming into view if they were clever.”

Alex frowned. “That’s not ideal, but we might get lucky. Let’s read the letter again.”

Krista had taken photos of the letters and now projected the first one on the screen. They studied the text in silence for a full minute.

“Why did they mention the press?” said Mitch. “I can understand them saying no police involvement. But why the press? Does anyone else find that odd?”

Bill did find it odd but not necessarily significant.

“I don’t find it odd,” said Alex. “Suppose a story relating the dognapping shows up in a local newspaper. That draws more attention to the crime and increases the culprit’s risk. There are a lot of dog lovers in the world who would like nothing better than to solve a crime like this.”

Mitch nodded. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

The four of them then kicked around ideas for who may have committed the crime. They all agreed that a resident had the best opportunity, someone who knew their way around the Mountain Inn, knew Teddy DeAngelis and Sport, and already had a ticket to the Snow Ball. But Bill couldn’t imagine a motive for a resident. Everyone liked Teddy, and kidnapping Sport was an awful risk to take for someone who wanted to remain in the community. No, it had to be a weekend visitor or someone who worked for a service provider to the Snow Ball—someone from the catering crew, the florist, the beverage supplier, or any of a long list of others.

The four of them spent another half hour on it and then gave up. A five-thousand-dollar crime didn’t make it far up on the list of priorities, and they all had a lot of other work to do.

Except for Bill. He stayed in the conference room and stared at the wall for another hour. But then he gave up too. He reached his Mazda in the parking lot outside, but then Krista hailed him from the station door. They met halfway, and she handed him a printed piece of paper.

“I did a few searches for dognapping cases in Virginia. This story appeared eighteen months ago in the Virginia Gazette, Williamsburg’s local newspaper. A dog was kidnapped in the middle of a Fourth of July celebration. I couldn’t find any mention of the ransom amount or whether the police ever apprehended the perpetrator.”

“Huh,” said Bill. “That’s interesting.”

“You think it has something to do with our case?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

By the time Bill reached his condo, it was eleven o’clock in the morning. He made coffee and ate a bowl of cereal, but his mind was a hundred and sixty miles east in Williamsburg. After giving it a bit more thought, Bill was willing to wager a hefty sum that the same person had committed both crimes. The news story in the Virginia Gazette had spooked the criminal, and they had changed instructions on their standard ransom note. No police. And. No press. They had committed the same crime—perhaps several times—after the Williamsburg incident.

But who?

The temperature had warmed into the mid-forties, and it was a gorgeous day, so Bill donned a light jacket and took a second cup of coffee outside on his balcony to think.

The crest of the hill across the wooded hollow rolled softly down from the right. The Mountain Inn lay at the top of a ski run. Chairlift towers and cables ran up the cleared ski slopes. Hidden ski runs cut sweeping lines through the forests. Silence hung heavy and comfortable over Wintergreen.

It made no sense that a catering server would commit a dognapping in Williamsburg and then move on to Wintergreen. The culprit must have a logical reason for moving around. They had stolen a dog in Williamsburg, then moved on to another town according to some arranged schedule, and then another town, and another, and finally made it to Wintergreen.

Wait.

Bill sat straight.

Uh-huh. Yep. That might be it.

He pulled his phone out and called Cindy. She sounded sleepy.

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

“I fell asleep on the couch. I didn’t sleep well last night with all the worry about Sport, but once we found him, I came home and collapsed. What’s up?”

“When we set up the ballroom yesterday, did you notice who was there from the band?”

“The band?”

“A few people were setting up equipment and doing sound checks. Did you see them?”

“Yes. There were two men and one woman. They were young, late twenties, early thirties.”

“That’s what I thought. Thank you.”

“What’s this all about?”

“A hunch. It may be nothing. Do you remember the name of the band?”

“Sure. The Piedmont Troubadours.”

Bill promised Cindy he’d give her the scoop later if his hunch panned out, and then he hurried inside to consult his laptop. It only took a few minutes for him to find it. The Piedmont Troubadours had performed at an open venue in Colonial Williamsburg on the same day that the other dog was kidnapped.

Bill and Mitch studied the menu at the Whitetail Pub in Maidens, Virginia. They were seated at a corner table for four that provided them with an excellent view of the full dining room. Bill was sorely tempted by the burger and fries. But he was trying to keep a tight rein on his meat consumption, and he’d eaten a burger the previous week, so he opted for the Green Goddess salad with grilled salmon. Mitch ordered the Rueben with fries. Oh, to be young again. Bill sipped his Diet Coke, leaned back, and subtly observed the three members of the Piedmont Troubadours who sat in the center of the room.

Events had unfolded quickly that day. After discovering the connection between the band and the earlier dognapping incident, Bill first called Alex Sharp to convey a sense of urgency. They needed to move quickly to have a chance of nabbing the criminals before they dispersed their newfound riches. Krista’s video review had failed to secure evidence connecting the band—or anyone else—with the crime. Which left Bill and the others with only one real shot at justice—they had to catch one or more of the band members in possession of ransom money.

Through internet research, Krista determined that two of the musicians and the female band manager lived in the same house in Goochland, Virginia. Alex called the Goochland county sheriff to explain the situation. As luck would have it, Sheriff Dunning owned a Lakeland Terrier and was a huge dog lover. Dunning gave Alex verbal permission for Mitch and Bill to observe the band’s movements provided they kept Dunning informed and didn’t confront the band members. Mitch changed into jeans and a casual sweater, and Bill drove them an hour and a half to Goochland, where they parked down the street from the band members’ house. After three hours of Bill and Mitch watching and trading small talk, the band members came out the front door and climbed into a minivan. Bill gave them a comfortable lead and then followed the minivan a short way to the Whitetail Pub in the small community of Maidens. Bill had pulled into the lot, and they watched the band saunter into the restaurant.

Then Mitch had called the sheriff for instructions. Goochland County had a small population, and the sheriff knew the brewpub manager personally. The sheriff told Mitch to stay put, then called Mitch back a short while later with a plan.

The band members appeared much the same as the other customers. They wore jeans and long-sleeved attire. The two guys drank beer, and the woman opted for wine. They had a quiet conversation.

The server assigned to the band members played her part well. She stopped to check if they needed anything and leaned her hip against a chair. She smiled. She laughed.

Bill and Mitch’s food came. The Green Goddess salad with the salmon was excellent. Mitch said the Rueben was good too. Bill decided the Whitetail Pub was the kind of place where you could order anything on the menu and come away satisfied. He made a mental note to invite Cindy on a day trip to the area. From the road signage, Bill had gathered there were fun places to visit: wineries, historical sites, and a state park on the James River.

Mitch’s phone buzzed. He said hello, listened for a full minute, then signed off.

“That was Sheriff Dunning. He’s got two squad cars in the parking lot. If we get a match, they’ll take them in. If we don’t, the sheriff will peel off.”

“Sounds good,” said Bill.

Bill’s heart rate accelerated. He fingered the papers in his pocket that contained the sorted list of serial numbers.

The server brought the band members their check and continued to another table. She never showed the slightest hesitation. She might want to consider a career in law enforcement.

From behind the bar, the manager chatted good-naturedly with patrons seated there. One of the band members reached for his wallet. Bill held his breath. The band member counted out several bills and placed them into the check presenter. The server returned to the table, said something, smiled again, and took their payment to the bar’s cash register to make the change. The manager strolled to the cash register, exchanged pleasantries with the server, and then moseyed out from the bar to Bill and Mitch’s table.

The manager laid a check presenter down, said, “Five twenties,” and walked away.

As far as Bill could tell, none of the band members had noticed anything unusual.

Bill spread his two pieces of paper flat on the table, Mitch sorted the twenties, and then Bill and Mitch leaned toward each other.

In a low voice, Mitch read the first serial number.

“Yep,” said Bill.

Mitch read the second serial number and got the same response. They repeated the process for three more twenties. Then Mitch called the sheriff and said, “We’ve got them. Five hits on five bills.”

The band members stayed a few minutes longer to finish their drinks. Then they left the restaurant, walking into what would inevitably become an unsuspected nightmare. Bill felt no sympathy for them.

He recalled the image of Teddy DeAngelis sobbing on Wintergreen Drive with the wounded Sport in his arms. Bill had heard later than Sport’s broken foreleg would require him to wear a cast for several weeks.

“I was just thinking, Mitch,” said Bill.

“Okay. Tell me.”

“The knowledge that the sheriff is taking those three in for questioning is the best Christmas present I’ve received in a long time.”

“I’ll second that.”

The manager soon came over to their table, and Bill thanked him for his help.

“Glad to do it,” he said. The manager was a jolly fellow with a white beard and a barrel chest. He wore a plaid shirt in Christmas colors. “You guys ready for dessert?” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

“I probably shouldn’t,” said Bill.

“Come on, now. It’s on the house.”

“What are you serving?” said Mitch.

“My wife makes an excellent apple pie, and we put a huge scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. Want some?”

“Oh, yes,” said Bill. “I certainly do.”

THE END

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Thank you for reading the Wintergreen Crime Story Collection. If you enjoyed Bill’s adventures, you’re in for a real treat when you read The Wintergreen Mystery Series.

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This is a work of fiction. Some of the locations, restaurants, and other places referenced in the novel are real; however, the names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or events at a particular locale or to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.