Pickled (An Alex Harris Mystery) (16 page)

“Yes, she was right there. She heard it all. Both times. What are you getting at? Do you think one of us had something to do with the man’s death? How could we? I know nothing about him. He didn’t even give me his name.”

My mind was in overdrive and another thought came rushing forward.

“Mr. Hildebrand, where do you live?”

“Here. In the city. A small loft not too far from here.”

“And Suzanne?”

“I’ve asked her to move in with me, but she says my place is too small and she likes her freedom. I don’t delude myself, Ms. Harris. I’m old enough to be her father. I’m happy with what we have so I don’t press her.”

“So where does she live?” I asked again.

“Some little village in Connecticut. On the coast. She commutes unless I can get her to stay over.”

“Do you know the name of the town?” At this point I was trying my hardest not to grab the man’s suit and shake the name out of him.

“Yes. Something with a cove, like a movie name, oh, what is it—oh, wait. Pirates Cove. Yes, that’s it. She lives in Pirates Cove, Connecticut.

I felt an adrenaline rush. Had I just solved the crime? I thanked the gallery owner and headed back to the station, catching a return train by just a few minutes.

I still needed to talk with the lovely Suzanne, but I didn’t want to do that with Mr. Hildebrand around. I’d have to find her in Pirates Cove through the Internet or the good old phone book, and then I remembered I didn’t know her last name. Damn. I guess I could have Millie call the gallery on some pretense and ask for the names of the gallery owner and assistant.

I took off my coat and placed it on the seat next to me. As soon as the train started to move, I reran the conversation with Mr. Hildebrand in my head. Once a scam artist, always a scam artist? Or had the man truly been changed by his time in prison? I would imagine English prisons are no better than ones in American except maybe they have afternoon tea. I wondered if that included scones with clotted cream.

I only had the gallery owners word for it, but for some reason I believed him. If Humphrey hadn’t died, I’m not sure Mr. Hildebrand would have been able to hold out—not because he wanted to return to that life, but because so much was at stake—but Humphrey did die, leaving Mr. Hildebrand to continue on with his business. I was not so blind as to not see how very convenient Humphrey’s demise was for the gallery, but I still felt Mr. Hildebrand really did want to make a legitimate go of it here in the States and would have turned Humphrey away once again. But that left Suzanne. The gallery was presumably her life and main source of income as well. Was she the type to tell Humphrey to take a hike or would she have begged her lover to do what Humphrey wanted in an attempt to get rid of him? Given her personal relationship with Mr. Hildebrand, she probably held a certain amount of leverage over him and could bring him around to Humphrey’s demands. I definitely needed to have a talk with her and the sooner the better. With any luck, she would return to Pirates Cove tonight rather than stay in the city with Mr. Hildebrand at his loft. Maybe I could just hang around the train station this evening and see if she got off one of the commuters coming in from the city? But there had to be a better way to find out where she lived.

The train slowed and I got off and walked to my car. I pulled out my cell phone and found the business card Shirley had given me. She answered after a couple of rings and said she wasn’t home, but we could meet for a late lunch at a café in Westport. I told her I could be there in about twenty-five minutes and headed out.

The restaurant Shirley suggested was one of those new trendy places with a name derived from the street address. This one was located at seven-fifty-four on the river road, hence the name, 754. Shirley was seated at a table by a large fireplace and greeted me with a warm smile.

“What a nice surprise, Alex. What brings you to Westport?”

I placed my coat over the back of my chair and sat down. “Actually, I was in Bridgeport. I took the train to New York this morning to talk with Mr. Hildebrand.”

“You should have called,” Shirley said. “I’ve been busy all morning, but I could have rearranged a few things.”

“It was literally a last-minute decision,” I lied. “So what kind of case are you working on now? Who needs the dirt on whom?” I didn’t want to just jump in and accuse the woman of lying to me all this time, and besides, I was hungry. I thought it best to eat first then get into the uncomfortable stuff later.

A waiter came by and took our drink orders and left two menus on the table.

“No dirt on this case, at least none I’ve found so far. I was hired by a man who wants to buy into a small company here in town. He needs me to do a background check on the current owner, who he would eventually partner with, and the other employees. He also wants me to find what the current health of the business is in general. So far it seems to be a sound investment. My client is retired, but too young to hang it up all together, so he’s looking to buy into an established company. So,” Shirley leaned forward on the table, clasping her hands in front of her. “Has something else happened? Why did you need to see the gallery owner again?”

Was Shirley acting too eager about my case? Darn that sister of mine for putting these doubts into my head.

“All this time I’ve been assuming the killer had to be someone at the dinner, because no one saw a stranger come in.”

“And now you found out the gallery owner was there?” Shirley asked.

I shook my head. “No. I found out the side door of the Veterans Hall was open most of the night. It’s right next to the place where Humphrey died.” I watched Shirley’s face for any sign of guilt, but didn’t see anything.

“I see. So a total stranger could have come in and you thought it might be Mr. Hildebrand.” Shirley nodded her approval. “Good to check it out.”

The waiter came back with our teas and a basket of assorted breads, and took our order. I chose a bowl of vegetable soup and a salad with pieces of chicken and shredded bacon and Shirley ordered the house pizza. Once he left an awkward silence seemed to settle over the table for a couple of minutes.

Shirley took a sip of her tea and then gently placed the mug back on the table. “I think you want to ask me something so why don’t you just do it and get it over with?”

I’ve solved a few murders over the last couple years and for the most part, I think I have a real knack for this stuff. But here’s where the police shine. John would just jump in and ask the woman point blank whatever it was he wanted to know, but being a good people person like I am, it also means I tend to make personal connections I assume I wouldn’t do if I had a badge and this was a real job.

Looking across at Shirley, I didn’t get the feeling she was upset with me. Of course, she also did this kind of thing for a living and maybe some things just went along with the job, like asking a new friend if they were a killer.

“Look,” I said, feeling like a heel. “My sister said I only had your word for what you’ve told me so far about your investigation into Humphrey. I never once thought you to be anything but honest and forthcoming.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Shirley said without malice. “You want to be a detective, amateur or not, you can’t get caught up in these Hallmark moments. You’re trying to solve a crime for the widow and you have to follow every lead. So ask your questions. It’s hard because we’ve become friends, but your sister is right. Do your job.”

I took a deep breath and plunged in. “Was Humphrey blackmailing you?”

Shirley smiled. “I thought you were going to ask if I killed him.”

“That’s my next question, depending on how you answer my first.” Now it was my turn to smile.

Shirley buttered a piece of brown bread. “No, he wasn’t blackmailing me. I’m fairly certain he had no idea I was following him, but you never know. Maybe he did and just didn’t get around to making me an offer I couldn’t refuse before he was killed. I like to think I’m smarter and do a better job than that pea brain Roder, but Humphrey was a sly one, I’ll give him that.”

“And if he did plan on blackmailing you,” I began, “was there anything to find?”

The waiter brought our food and asked if we needed anything else and then left.

“I got married young, had my kids, took some classes at night, my husband died and that’s about it. I dated a couple of jerks in high school, dated a man for about a year a couple of years ago.” Shirley gave me a shrug. “Anything there worth blackmailing about?”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” I said.

“I think that side door being open gives you a few more choices of a killer, including Roder. Sophie told me she and Humphrey were going to the supper that night so I didn’t follow him, but maybe Roder still was and saw an opportunity to get more money out of Humphrey, they fought and one of them ended up dead. And did you say that Roder saw Humphrey get on the train?”

“He did. But he didn’t follow him.”

“Says who?” Shirley asked.

“Right. So maybe he did go to New York and went back at some point, like we did, and like I did today, and found out something he could use against Humphrey.”

“Did you get anymore out of the gallery owner today?”

“Not too much. Humphrey did want him to sell some art, some questionable stuff, and Mr. Hildebrand said no. Then Humphrey came back to him with the dirt on his arrest in London and Mr. Hildebrand still refused to deal with him. He told me Humphrey said he would be back with a few items, but then he was killed and that was that.”

“Did you believe him?” Shirley finished the last bite of her pizza and pushed the plate away.

“Yes, I did believe him. Of course it could all be a big lie. Maybe he already has whatever Humphrey wanted sold and plans to sell it at some point and pocket the money.”

“I’m not sure how you could find that out except to ask Sophie, but if Humphrey had some secret items, Sophie may not know whether they’re missing or not.”

“I thought the same exact thing and talked to her on Wednesday. She told me nothing was missing as far as she could tell. Maybe I should check again, but she left for Wisconsin and won’t be back for a few days.” I pushed my salad plate away. “I feel like I’m back to square one. Maybe the murder is what it initially seemed—a fight with one of the pickleball players that got out of hand.

We paid for our lunch and walked outside. I said good-bye to Shirley and told her I would let her know if I found out anything else.

I was once again aware of the fact I only had Shirley’s word on any of the things she told me over lunch. Did I really think she would look me in the eye across the table and admit to killing Humphrey Bryson? It didn’t sound like she had anything in her past worth being blackmailed over, but who knew for sure. There must be some sort of state board regulating private investigators and maybe I should check it out and see if there were any complaints filed against Shirley or her business.

I headed back to Indian Cove and found myself in front of Meme’s. I was halfway up the walk when her neighbor came out and said she and Theresa had just headed over to the community center for pickleball.

I got back in my car and a few minutes later I walked into the center.

The game of pickleball started back in the nineteen-sixties, when some bored people tried to play badminton but couldn’t find a shuttlecock. They improvised with a small ball, much like a Wiffleball, and lo and behold a new game emerged—or so Meme tells me. The truth is I never heard of it until my grandmother’s friends got involved, but it looked like a fun game and anything to keep seniors moving and healthy was a good idea. Personally, I never liked tennis and this just looked too similar, so I doubted I’d be joining a team and becoming a pickler, as the players were called, anytime soon.

“Alex!”

I heard my name and turned to see Meme and Theresa waving me over.

“I stopped by your house. I didn’t know there was another game today.”

“Storms coming. Going to be a big one. Figured we better get out while we could,” my grandmother told me.

Everyone talked about global warming but you couldn’t tell it by New England. Seemed like one storm dumped a ton of snow and within forty-eight hours another one arrived. The city was running out of places to put all the snow.

“Your mom says your treatment went real good.” Meme patted my hand.

“It did. It was nice to have her along and other than a bit of stiffness in the morning, I feel good.

“I bet a lot of your pain the last month was stress and worrying about it. Now that you know what you got and you’re getting help, you won’t be so anxious.” My grandmother was a pretty smart woman.

“Looks like all the same people as the other day,” I said. I glanced around and saw Meme’s crowd, the calendar boys, and a bunch of people from the Pirates Cove team.

“Yep. There’s another guy here who didn’t show up on Tuesday, but he was at the supper so you may want to talk with him.” Meme pointed a finger at a tall, thin guy in his late sixties. “That’s Peter Gaffney. Nice guy. Quiet. Some of the ladies call him stud muffin. We were thinking about putting him in the calendar, but he doesn’t live in our community so we nixed it.” Meme continued her intense stare at the man. “Maybe for the next one. Anyway, boy, did he hate Humphrey.”

I turned to look at my grandmother. “Really? Why?” I was also wondering why this juicy little tidbit was just now falling into my lap.

“Peter owns a lot of property, more than Humphrey did, and he scooped up a couple of old brownstones in New Haven several months back that he plans to renovate and rent out. Talk is Humphrey really wanted those houses, but Peter outbid him and old Humph doesn’t have any pull in New Haven, so he couldn’t blackmail anyone into letting him win the auction.”

“Seems like more of a reason why Humphrey would want to kill Peter, not the other way around,” I said, though of course they could have fought, and the much thinner and better fit Peter won.