Pickled (An Alex Harris Mystery) (15 page)

So here I was with my trusty LED light with three settings. I took a deep breath and got out of the car. Pitch black. I was tempted to leave my car lights on, but then what would I do if the battery died. I didn’t want to be out here any longer than necessary.

I took a few steps and stopped. Maybe I should call John and at least let him know where I was, but then he would want me to just get back in the car and go home. No, I was here now and I might as well have a look.

I stood in front and looked at the double doors. No other entrance or exit in the front. Anyone coming in would have had to walk by Meme and me selling our calendars. I moved around to the left side of the building where there was a walkway, which someone had cleared of snow, leading to the side parking area. There was one door, and I concluded it must be the exit I had seen next to the restrooms. There was no handle on this side of the door. No one could get in unless they had a key they could insert and use to pull the door open, or unless someone on the inside let them in.

I continued around to the back and found another door clear on the other side of the building along the back wall. This was probably the door Carl and Astrid used when they catered parties and from its location I knew it was close to the kitchen. So anyone using the other exit door I had first come to wouldn’t be seen from here—that is assuming the person had a key or an accomplice on the inside to let them in.

So if Shirley Reynolds came here to kill Humphrey, how would she have gotten in? She didn’t come in the front and she couldn’t get in the side door unless she had help. Maybe she came in through the kitchen, waited until the coast was clear, and walked along the back of the stage to where the restrooms were. I felt confident I could cross Shirley off my list until I remembered the small storage room. Maybe she arrived while we were all eating dinner, walked right in the front door and made her way to the storage room where she waited. Did she then creep out, catch Humphrey’s eye at some point, wave him over, talk him into the women’s room and kill him? And where did she get the pickle from?

I shook my head. This was crazy. It made no sense at all. Why did I listen to my sister and her nutty ideas? Shirley Reynolds was exactly as she seemed—a PI hired to get the dirt on Humphrey Bryson. The more I thought about it, it had to be someone on the team, but then I remembered the gallery owner and the lovely Suzanne. They could have snuck in and hid in the storage room as well. But how did they know Humphrey would be here unless they followed him? How many people were following this guy? At some point they must have all collided. Maybe I could just sit them all down and ask who was following whom and what did they see.

I was suddenly very tired and cold. I retraced my steps along the back and had just turned the corner when I screamed.

“Who the hell are you and what are you doing back here?”

I regained my composure and shined my very bright LED light in the man’s face. If he was about to stab me a bright light in his eyes might just give me a few precious seconds to run. He raised his arms to shield his eyes causing his own flashlight to burn into my eyes. I felt like a participant in a comedy routine.

“I’ll lower my light nice and slow if you lower yours,” I said.

We both took our time lowering the flashlights. I blinked a few times until I could see again and took a good look at the man. He was probably in his late forties and had on the uniform of a local security company.

“Okay. Let’s start again. Who are you and what are you doing back here?”

“My name’s Alex Harris and I was here on Saturday night.”

“When that guy got killed?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I’m the person who found him.”

“Gee, I’m sorry, but why are you here now?”

I could lie and say I dropped an earring and was hoping to find it, or I could just tell him the truth. “I was wondering how someone might have gotten in,” I said, opting for honesty being the best policy.

“You don’t think one of the party goers killed him?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. If not, then someone else showed up and I wanted to see how they got in. I was seated close to the lobby for a good part of the evening and didn’t see anyone. The kitchen was full of people so a stranger probably didn’t enter that way, and there’s no other door.”

“Sure there is. This one over here.” The man walked down the walk until we came to the exit door with no handle.

“But it’s locked.”

“Wasn’t on Saturday night. The hall director had me open it so folks could get in if they parked back here. He didn’t want all those seniors walking around to the front through the snow and ice. I had it propped wide open and then I left it cracked a bit for the rest of the night. It gets pretty hot and stuffy with all those people dancing and whatnot. I came back about ten and closed it up on my rounds. I do security for a few of the office building out here.”

So Shirley Reynolds could have gotten in and so could Mr. Hildebrand or anyone else who wanted to do away with Humphrey Bryson. I let the guard walk me back to my car and then drove home.

“Some detective I am,” I said a while later while John and I gobbled up the potato salad and then moved on to the spätzle and beef.

“If you didn’t use the restroom, you’d have no way of knowing the door was open.”

I looked across the table at my husband. “You don’t seem so surprised to hear the door was open all night.”

“That’s because I knew it was. I already spoke with Mr. Grayson.”

“Who’s Mr. Grayson?”

“The guard. The one you tried to blind with your flashlight.” John was smiling now.

“Wait. How did you know that?”

“He called a few minutes before you got home. I gave him one of my cards and told him to call if he remembered seeing anyone or if anything suspicious happened. Then you showed up acting suspicious.”

I drummed my fingers on the table. “Why didn’t you tell me about the open door?”

John scooped more spätzle onto his plate. “Nothing to tell. No one saw anyone coming or going through it. And besides, I had no idea you’d been hired by the Indian Cove Police department.”

He was still smiling but his tone was serious. So that’s how it was going to be. He liked me feeding him information and seemed more willing to let me snoop than he had before, but clearly he didn’t think of me as a true partner in crime. My feelings were hurt, though I did try to see it from his point of view. I didn’t work for the police as he pointed out, and it was most likely against regulations for him to discuss his cases with me, but I was still irked.

John looked over at the counter. “What else is in there?”

“Nothing. We ate everything I ordered.”

John got up, grabbed the deli bag and turned it upside-down. Two very large and very juicy pickles landed on the table causing us to laugh and breaking the tension.

I stopped by my office before anyone else arrived and checked my calendar. I had one appointment in the morning and another in the afternoon. I sent an email to Millie asking her to take my morning meeting and then I sent a couple of emails to clients. Once that was done I got the heck out of there before my sister showed up and asked me what I was up to.

Truth was I wasn’t sure what I was up to. I planned to take the train to New York and talk with Mr. Hildebrand, providing he would speak with me, which he was under no obligation to do. I thought about contacting Shirley to see if she wanted to go, but I wasn’t sure she was trustworthy. I hate that. I hate not knowing who the good and bad guys are. I really liked Shirley until my sister cast suspicion all over the woman. At some point I would have to sort it all out and ask Shirley point blank if Humphrey was blackmailing her, but right now I had a train to catch.

Once the train left the station I settled back with a new thriller I was reading. It was very good and lucky for me the author had written several in the series so I had plenty of others to read after this one, but my mind kept drifting. Last night while John caught up on a couple of shows he had DVR’d, I had searched the Internet for information on Alastair Hildebrand. There wasn’t much. I had found the article Shirley read to me the other day and then he seemed to disappear until he popped up in New York a couple years ago and opened the gallery.

I sat there watching scenery go by, thinking about how I should approach the gallery owner. He’d already met me so I couldn’t walk in pretending I wanted to buy a painting. Besides, my lack of knowledge on anything art related would give me away immediately, so I decided once again honesty would be the best way to go.

The train pulled into the station and I followed the same route Shirley and I had walked on Wednesday. I wasn’t even sure they would be open yet as I had taken an earlier train than Shirley and I had, but once I arrived at my destination I was happy to see the gallery door open. A large moving truck was doubled parked in front and two men were moving crates into the building under the watchful eye of Alastair Hildebrand.

There was a coffee shop directly across the street and I got a tea and parked myself at a table by the window. I’d wait until the men had concluded their business in the hopes I would be able to have Mr. Hildebrand’s complete attention. Twenty minutes later the truck drove away and I walked across the street and into the gallery.

“I’m sorry, we’re not open yet,” Mr. Hildebrand said without looking up. He finally did, and when he saw it was me, he stopped what he was doing.

“Mr. Hildebrand, I was wondering if you had some time to talk. Just a few minutes.”

The gallery owner gave an exaggerated sigh and looked around him at the crates. “As you can see I’m rather busy.”

“I promise. I won’t take up too much of your time.”

“Very well, but I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

“In the interest of not wasting your time, I know about your troubles in London, and I’m not really interested in any of that except to ask you one thing.”

Mr. Hildebrand stood in front of me with a look of dread on his face. I actually felt sorry for the man despite what had occurred twenty years before.

“And what is that?”

“Was Humphrey Bryson blackmailing you?”

“Oh my God, I knew this would all come out. I paid for my prior sins and now it’s all coming back to haunt me. I’ll be ruined.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” I said.

Mr. Hildebrand looked around and then called for his assistant.

“Suzanne, would you be so kind to keep an eye on things. I’ll be right back.” He turned to me and said, “Not here. Let’s go to the coffee shop across the street.”

So once again I took a seat by the window while Mr. Hildebrand ordered two cups of tea.

“Here you go. Before I tell you anything, who are you exactly?”

I told him how Sophie had hired me to find out who killed her husband and why, but that I had no official capacity. I told him I felt I was letting her down and with any luck I could clear everything up before she got back and present both Sophie and the police with a killer. I assured him I didn’t want to cause him any trouble—I just needed some information.

Mr. Hildebrand cradled his cup and then looked up at me from across the tiny table. “He showed up in my gallery a month or so ago and wanted me to arrange the sale of some items. I knew from the way he was talking that whatever he had he probably didn’t get it in a conventional manner, if you get my drift.” I nodded and he continued. “I had some trouble in London years ago, was in prison for a few years, and after that I tried to make a go of it there again and in Brussels, but some things people never forget, so I came here. Suzanne and I got together a few years ago at another gallery where we both worked. She has a degree in art history and we work well together, so we decided to go out on our own. Before my troubles, I had a good reputation and I’m beginning to establish one here. Then that horrid little man came into my gallery.”

A few people with large laptop bags squeezed passed our table. I waited for them to move away. “And what did you tell Mr. Bryson?” I asked.

“I told him to go away. Believe it or not, I learned my lesson. Prison is not something I wish to repeat. He gave me a smirk and walked out and I thought, good, he’s gone.”

“But he wasn’t.”

“No. He wasn’t. He came back and this time he had all the details of my arrest and unsavory past, as he put it. He threatened to expose me. The truth is, this is a very small little world, the art world, and perhaps people already know, but they seem to be giving me another chance here and I didn’t want anything to interfere with that. I have no other skills and I need to make a living. Art is my life.”

“So you agreed to do what he asked.” Like Shirley had said, a reformed scam artist is only reformed until the next scam comes along.

Mr. Hildebrand looked like I had slapped him across the face. “Certainly not! I told him to get out. He paid no attention and said he would be back with his
stuff
, that’s what he called it, and I would find him a buyer or else.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I never saw him again. And then you and that other woman showed up and said he was murdered. I am curious how he found out so much about me. There’s a small article one can find on the Internet, which mentions I was in prison, but nothing else. Believe me, I’ve checked many times, so how did he have so many details?”

“I have no idea.” I thought back to what Shirley found on her laptop the other day and it must have been the same article. “Do you have any idea what he wanted you to sell?”

“None. He never said and thankfully I’ll never know.”

I sat there thinking about all I had just heard. I wanted to believe him. I really did, but it was the
or else
that bothered me. Two little words that packed a lot of punch to someone so vulnerable. And then I had another thought.

“Mr. Hildebrand, did Suzanne know everything that had transpired?”