Sinfandel Read Online Free PDF

said.
    “This your property?” he asked, motioning toward my vineyard.
    “Yes.  What’s the matter?”
    He flashed a badge in my direction.  “I’m detective Obermeyer, San Joaquin County Sheriff’s Department.  Would you follow me?”
    Before I could answer, he marched off toward the railroad tracks, then turned onto the dirt service road that runs alongside the tracks.  I jogged to catch up with him.
    “Why can’t you just tell me what it is?” I said.
    “Better if I show you.”
    “Can I see your badge again?”
    He stopped, opened the wallet and allowed me to inspect the badge to my satisfaction.
    “Mind if I call the station to verify this?  You could be the Zodiac killer’s son for all I know.”
    “Be my guest.”
    I rummaged in my purse for my cell phone and called information and got connected to the Sheriff’s Station.  A woman answered and I asked her to describe Detective Obermeyer, since a man claiming to be him was requesting that I follow him into the woods.
    “Certainly,” she said.  “Steve Obermeyer is about six feet tall, dark hair with a little gray here and there, great body, and voted best candidate for Mr. July if we ever get our annual Sheriffs’ calendar idea off the ground.”
    I nodded as I listened to her description, working hard to suppress a smile. 
    When I finally hung up, he said, “Satisfied?”
    I nodded and continued following him along the tracks.
    “That pond on your property?” he said, aiming his chin toward a pond created by a dam built by a family of beavers who had moved in long before I bought the place.  Last spring, they felled a tree across the road on the other side of the bridge and I was stranded until one of my neighbors showed up with a chainsaw and hauled it away.
    “Yes.  Did the beavers break some county ordinance?”  Detective Obermeyer didn’t smile. Apparently he had no sense of humor.
    We walked another fifty yards or so.  As we approached an overpass where Highway 12 crossed the tracks, I noticed some tall green plants growing under the bridge.  When we got to the plants, I stopped, suddenly aware of the problem.
    “These aren’t mine,” I said.
    “You realize what they are.”
    “Marijuana plants?  I’ve never seen one in person, but I’ve seen pictures.”
    “Whoever planted them has been watering them from that pond your beaver’s built.”
    “They’re not my beavers.”
    “From that pond on your property.  Would you know anything about this?”
    Right, like I would admit to it even if I did know something about it.  “No, but I’m surprised they’re growing so well under the bridge.  You’d think they’d need more sun.”
    “They get plenty of morning and evening sun.  We got a call from one of the railroad employees who recognized what they are.  I found some footprints in the mud around the pond.  Looks like the guy uses a five-gallon bucket to get the water to them.”
    “I haven’t seen anyone hauling a bucket around, but he probably does it in the middle of the night… oh my God.”  I actually gasped.
    “What is it?”
    “A couple nights ago there was a strange pickup in my driveway at 2:30 in the morning.  I called 911 but he was gone by the time the police got here.”
    “You think it’s related?”
    “Could be.  He was messing around my barn.  I bet he was looking for a bucket.  I didn’t notice if any were gone, I have a bunch of them.”  I was grasping at straws, but any explanation was better than not knowing what the stranger was up to that night.
    “You’d think he’d bring his own bucket.”
    “Maybe something happened to his.  Handle broke or he forgot it.”
    Obermeyer scanned the surrounding terrain.  The sun was getting low in the sky and the light was not good.  “I’d like to set up a surveillance point.  Can you see this pond from your house?”
    I shook my head.  “No.  You’d have to be at the edge of the vineyard to see it.”
    Obermeyer nodded.