Pickled (An Alex Harris Mystery) (2 page)

Of course the first thing my husband wanted to know was why I didn’t call him directly.

“Because of exactly this,” I said.

“Exactly this what?” John asked in exasperation.

“All these questions. I couldn’t call you and answer all your questions, attend to a hysterical wife, and corral all the catering people all at the same time, John. Geesh. I’m just one person. I chose to help Sophie and keep potential witnesses-slash-murderers here instead.”

John ran a hand through his thick hair. “And where might I find this Sophie and all these potential witnesses-slash-murderers?”

“In the kitchen with Meme. At least that’s where Sophie is. I made them both a cup of tea. I think the catering staff is in a little break room off the kitchen.”

“And how about all the other people who were here tonight? Where are they?” John looked at me with his stern face.

“What do you mean where are they? They went home. I told everyone to go home after I broke up the fight.”

Now John hung his head and I could almost hear him counting to ten.

“Fight? What fight? Alex, start at the beginning, and God help me, don’t leave anything out.”

So I told him everything including how the ladies blushed looking at Mr. June. “And then I found Humphrey in the ladies’ room and I had Meme call you. I even managed to keep the wait staff out. So now you know everything I do.”

John turned to one of the police officers. “We’re going to need a list of everyone who was here tonight.”

“I think I might be able to help with that,” I interjected. “There’s a guest list in the lobby. It was still there after everyone left so it must be there now. I know Meme and I signed in so I’m assuming everyone else did as well.”

“Well, that’s a start.” John sent the officer to retrieve the guest book and then turned his attention back to me. “You can go ahead and take Meme home, but don’t leave town. I may have some other questions.” He finally gave me a smile.

“What about Sophie, I mean Mrs. Bryson. Shouldn’t I stay here with her?”

“Does she have any family in the area who we can call?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea.”

John looked at me with his stern face again. “Okay. You can go sit with her, but no talking about the case and I’ll have someone take Meme home.”

A few minutes later I stood by the big industrial stove boiling more water.

“John’s going to find someone to take you home, Meme. I’ll stay with Mrs. Bryson.”

Meme turned to look at me. “No way, kiddo. I got nothing to do tomorrow. I can sleep all day.”

I knew Meme wouldn’t go quietly. Who was I kidding? I managed quite nicely to finagle my way back to the kitchen where the victim’s wife sat quietly at the table, fingering a paper napkin.

I made fresh cups of tea for Meme and Mrs. Bryson and took my cup to the table.

“Mrs. Bryson, do you feel like talking? Do you have any idea why someone would kill Mr. Bryson?” I asked, totally disregarding John’s admonishment to not talk about the case.

Sophie Bryson picked up the cup of hot tea and cradled it in her hands and I noticed they were still shaking. I was acting like a ghoul. The woman’s husband just died, murdered with a pickle. Of course she didn’t feel like talking.

Meme reached over and patted Mrs. Bryson’s arm. “You just drink your tea, honey; the police will figure it all out soon enough. Let us know if you need anything. Maybe there are some cookies or something in one of these cabinets.”

I was just about to get up to see what I could find, when Sophie Bryson put her cup down and looked at me.

“You wanted to know if I have any idea why someone would want to kill Humph? You better get a piece of paper, legal size, and a pen. It’s going to be a long list.”

Humphrey Bryson was a bully, at least to hear his widow tell it, which, unfortunately I didn’t because John walked in right after the word
bully
left her mouth, effectively shutting my investigation down.

But that was last night. This morning I had other plans, but first waited for my husband to leave so I could get to work. Not
work
work. This was a Sunday, after all, and while I consider myself to be a dedicated businesswoman, I didn’t usually go into my office on the weekends. John, on the other hand, was a policeman with a fresh murder to solve and he had to work night and day, depending on the volume of crime in our fair city and some of the other small towns in the area, which were also policed by the Indian Cove department.

Before I headed out, I had a few chores to finish. I stood at my kitchen sink rinsing off a plate while I looked out onto a white landscape. It had snowed during the night, and shortly after John left this morning, it started again. Being a New Englander, I love snow and since I hardly ever leave Indian Cove it wasn’t a big hassle as far as driving was concerned. Plus, our city had a great town council who made sure the roads were cleared quickly and often, and so I dried off my hands, gathered up my iPad and some anise cookies and headed over to Meme’s.

“Come on in, honey. I’ve been waiting for you,” my grandmother said a while later. “Got the hot water going and the heat cranked up to high.”

My grandmother closed the front door and I hung up my coat in the front hall closet and took my boots into the kitchen and placed them on a mat by the back door. On the wall above the mat hung the calendar at eye level and I had a great view of Walter Hofstader, Mr. January, smiling from underneath his ever-present Yankee’s baseball cap, stooped over and leaning on a snow shovel. Walter was famous in the community for his great butt and Sloth had done a nice job of showing it off decked out in snowman-covered boxer shorts and nothing else. Sloth, or Seymour as he preferred to be called, had placed white sheets over pillows for the snow and used one of those scenic backdrops that schools use for class pictures. It really was a fun calendar.

“Are you ready for the big premiere tonight?” Meme asked, as she opened up the container of teabags and dropped one into each of our mugs.

My grandmother referred of course to the start of season four of Downton Abbey, the bright spot in an otherwise cold and dark month.

“I’m ready but I’m not so sure John will make it home in time.”

“Theresa and Francis are coming over,” my grandmother said, referring to her two BFFs. “We’re getting takeout and going to make a party of it.”

Yes, everyone in my family was a true Anglophile and the start of our favorite show was a big event. But that was tonight. Right now Meme and I needed to sort through all the attendees from the supper and see if anyone stood out as a cold-blooded killer.

“So you don’t actually know everyone from last night, right?” I asked my grandmother.

“Nope. I’ve seen all of them at the games, but mostly I just know the people from our pickleball group. I’ve talked to that Sophie Bryson once or twice, but it can get down and dirty and you don’t want to be caught socializing with the other team members.”

I smiled. To clarify, my grandmother does not play pickleball. She watches pickleball. Mainly, she and her group watch the butts of certain pickleball players. All the senior communities in the towns surrounding Indian Cove had formed pickleball teams and they got together to play tournaments or just to practice at the various recreation centers in the area. And for those who don’t know, like me the first time I heard the words pickleball, the game is played on a court with similar dimensions to a doubles badminton court. Meme’s friends usually play on tennis courts, but only half the court, thus cutting down on the amount of running needed to hit the ball, making it ideal for seniors. Like tennis, there is a net but it’s placed a few inches lower. The players use a hard paddle and smaller version of a Wiffle ball.

“Okay, so give me the names of the people from your community who were there last night.”

“Howard Wronkovich and Walter Hofstader. Fred of course.”

“Hold on,” I said raising my hand. “In all the years I’ve known him, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Fred’s last name.” I just know the man as Viagra Fred, or more recently, generic Viagra Fred.

“Turner. His last name is Turner. Let’s see, Norbert Meyer was there. His sister and her husband catered all the food.”

“Really?” I asked. “It was all delicious.”

“His sister owns the German Deli and she and her husband made all of the food. They play pickleball for our team but they don’t live in this community.”

“I wonder where they got those gigantic pickles.” I said.

Meme shrugged. “I been wondering about that. Not the size of the pickles, but the use of a pickle as a murder weapon. Maybe it was just handy.”

I turned this thought over in my mind. “The only way I can see to murder by pickle is to indeed shove it down someone’s throat.”

“You better talk with those deli people,” Meme suggested.

I mentally added them to my list and then got back to the supper attendees. “How about the victim, Humphrey Bryson? Did you ever meet him before last night?”

Meme nodded. “Sure, I’ve seen him a lot, but I’ve only exchanged a few words with the wife now and then. Humphrey seemed like an irritating little man. He walked funny; kind of bounced on the balls of his feet, and he was constantly jingling coins in his pocket. A nervous habit, I guess. They play for the team from Pirates Cove, call themselves the Pirates Booty. Ha!” Meme snorted. “Not one of their guys’ butts can stand up to Walter’s.”

“What about the women, do they play?” I asked, still smiling at Meme’s obsession with the butts of the calendar boys.

“Sure. Theresa likes to play and she’s pretty good. There are lots of women who play but I go for the men. Maybe I should call Theresa and have her come over. She knows all the players better than I do.” Meme got up and walked into the kitchen, coming back a minute later. “She’s not home. But, honey, I gotta tell ya, you’re going to have your work cut out for you on this one.”

“Why’s that?”

“From what I know or heard, Humphrey Bryson was a bully and a womanizer. He’s on the Pirates Cove town council and has pulled some shady deals, plus he likes to cheat at pickleball. Most of the league probably wanted him dead, not to mention the citizens of Pirates Cove.”

I picked up my cup of tea and heaved a huge sigh. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

In cases like this the police always look at the spouse first and if it hadn’t been for my husband, I would have been able to interrogate Sophie Bryson last night. But, as he so arrogantly pointed out, he was the one with the badge. I really needed to get a badge. Maybe my nephew, Henry, had a one. He was eight and loved computers, but he also liked to run around outside torturing his older sister, my niece, Kendall, so maybe toy guns and a sheriff’s badge were still part of his arsenal.

But right now I didn’t have any formal police ID of any kind and I wasn’t about to go over to my sister’s to raid Henry’s toy box. A couple of months ago, he asked for and received, a pet rat for his birthday. I’ve been keeping my distance ever since. Let’s just say my sister and I won’t be too upset when the thing goes to that big rat heaven in the sky.

So while I didn’t have a gold shield to force my way into people’s homes, I did have something that John didn’t have—at least I didn’t think he had one yet—and that was a directory complete with home addresses, phone numbers and email addresses for the entire pickleball league, courtesy of Meme. It was conveniently listed alphabetically with Humphrey and Sophie Bryson near the top of the list.

The Brysons lived in Pirates Cove, which was the next town over along the coast, but with the crazy weather we’ve been having our landscape consisted of varying shades of gray and white so it was pretty hard to tell we lived on an ocean. I slowly maneuvered my little black Honda along the coastal road until I came to my turn and pointed the car inland. After a few blocks the road curved back and I found myself parked in front of a home on waterfront property. It was a large home of weathered shingles and white shutters framing all the windows. There was a wrap-around porch and a long paved driveway. I had no idea what Humphrey Bryson had done for a living, but whatever it was, he must have been successful.

I pulled into the driveway and noticed there weren’t any other cars. I’d hoped the widow would have a house full of people offering their condolences so as to make my visit that much less conspicuous. At this point I wasn’t even sure Sophie Bryson was home, but there was a three-car garage off the right side of the home and maybe her car was parked in there out of the elements. There was only one way to find out.

I made my way up the walk and used a brass knocker in the shape of an anchor to knock on the door. I had to do this one more time before I finally heard footsteps approaching.

“Can I help you?” a red-eyed Mrs. Bryson asked.

“Mrs. Bryson, it’s me, Alex Harris. I was with you last night when we—when your husband was found.”

Recognition showed in the swollen eyes. “Oh, my, yes. Please come in, dear. Can I offer you anything?”

“A tea would be nice, but I can get it if you show me to the kitchen.” I followed Sophie Bryson down a long hall to the back of the house into a kitchen with an up-close view of Long Island Sound—at least what could be seen through the snow. I’m sure during the summer the view was magnificent. “Would you like a cup?”

“Oh, yes, please. I’ve been drinking too much coffee. Tea would be lovely.” Sophie took a seat at a long island in the center of the room, which was so big it looked more like a continent, and pulled her sweater tightly around her thin shoulders. She had long gray hair, which was piled high on her head giving her a somewhat regal look.

I busied myself filling the tea pot and looking for cups all the while wondering where the heck everyone was. I mean the man just died last night. I would have thought friends and family would have gathered around the widow offering comfort.

“Mrs. Bryson, I’m surprised to see you all alone. Is there someone I can call for you? Children? A neighbor?”