Pickled (An Alex Harris Mystery) (4 page)

“And now with Mr. Bryson dead, what will happen to the contract?”

“The entire town was in an uproar about Humph sending business to another state. With him dead, Sid can count on having his snow plow business back.”

And Marie didn’t have to play with Humphrey Bryson anymore. How very convenient.

The pile of suspects was growing. So far I talked with three people and all three were now placed firmly on my list of most likely candidates for Humphrey Bryson’s murder. First, I had his wife. A fragile looking woman to be sure, but one who knew her husband better than most and certainly had to have had a clue as to the way he conducted his business. Next was Sid Dupre. The man had warned Humphrey over and over about coming on to his wife and Sid had said himself that Humphrey had gone too far. Plus, I had to wonder, was Sid Dupre as clueless as his wife claimed about what she and Humphrey Bryson were doing? I actually had another good reason for Sid to want Humphrey dead. Sid owned a successful business and seemed to live a good life. Losing a big contract had to hurt both his pride as well as his pocketbook. And then there was Marie, a beautiful woman who had been playing games with Humphrey far too long. Maybe she got tired of sitting in a dark car with the man while he got his jollies.

I made my way back to Indian Cove along the same route I had traveled earlier. The snow had finally let up and it was a quick drive. It had been quite a while since breakfast so I made my way over to my parents’ house where I knew something good would be waiting. It was Sunday, after all, and my mother always made a big Sunday lunch even if it was just for her and my dad and Riley, their adorable Welsh terrier.

My parents lived in the same house where my sister Sam and I had grown up and as I pulled into the driveway I saw that my sister must have had the same idea as me because her SUV was parked out front.

“Alex, what are you doing here?” Sam asked as I walked into the kitchen. “I thought you’d be out detecting.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could pull them back and my mother looked up from her position at the kitchen counter where she was mashing potatoes.

“Detecting what? What are you two up to now?” my mother asked, first looking at me and then my grandmother, who was playing a game of cards with my sister.

“I only told Samantha,” Meme said in her own defense.

My sister gave me a contrite look. “Sorry.”

I hung my coat up by the back door and looked out the window. My niece and nephew were out in the back sledding down the hill while Riley whimpered at my feet.

“Can I let him out?” I asked my mother.

“You can try, but he won’t go. He hates the snow and he wants the kids to come in and play.”

I only saw my dad in the back with the kids and asked Sam where her husband, Michael, was.

“Helping his dad put up some new shelving in the garage. I told him it was too cold but they have a space heater. We’re here for the free food.”

I turned my attention to my grandmother. “I thought you were having friends over?”

“That’s tonight. Your sister picked me up and I love Mable’s pot roast.”

“You never answered me, Alex. Detecting what?” my mother asked again. The woman was like a dog with a bone.

“There was a murder last night at the pickleball game Meme and I went to.”

My mother, Mable Harris, a tall purposeful woman, took the pot roast out of the pan, scooped out the carrots and onions and proceeded to make gravy.

“You might as well tell me all about it because I know you two and you’ll keep snooping until you catch the killer. So what was it this time? A stabbing? How about a gunshot smack in the middle of the eyes. We haven’t had one of those yet,” my mother said.

My sister turned in her seat. “The man was pickled.”

“Pickled? What the heck does that mean?” My mom pulled a gravy boat from a cabinet and placed it on the counter next to the stove.

“Someone shoved a very large German pickle down his throat,” I added. “It wasn’t pretty, trust me. As a matter of fact, it was about the most gruesome thing I’ve ever seen.”

My mother put both hands on the counter and just stared at me for a few moments, then she turned, reached for a small dish of gherkins she had placed on a Lazy Susan along with some carrots and olives, and dumped them in the trash.

Fortified with a full stomach, I gave Meme a ride home and decided I might as well talk to the calendar boys while I was in the neighborhood. Meme and her friends lived in a lovely community of small homes built especially for seniors. It was a great place for her to be and she had tons of friends. Truth is, my grandmother had no problem meeting people and making good friends. People just loved Meme. Some, like generic Viagra Fred, liked her too much, but she didn’t let his half-hearted advances get in the way of their friendship.

After dropping Meme off I drove around the block to Fred’s house and was happy to find both Walter Hofstader and Howard Wronkovich with him. Howard was beyond being a clean freak and requested guests to his home remove their shoes and wash their feet before entering. There was no way I was doing that in this weather and was delighted I wouldn’t have to make a special trip over to his house.

“Alex, Meme said you were on the case. You’re going to get some good training on this one. Everyone wanted Humphrey dead,” Fred said with too much enthusiasm, considering someone had died.

“Including you?” I asked him. Fred was a tall, thin man with wiry hair, who lost his wife many years ago. He had been pretty lonely when he first moved in, but once Meme and Theresa got hold of him, he opened up and sometimes I just considered him one of the girls, he spent so much time hanging out with my grandmother and her gang. I certainly didn’t peg him for a cold-blooded killer, but I had been wrong before. If there was one thing I learned since finding my first dead body in a mannequin factory a couple of years ago, it was that everyone was capable of killing—under the right circumstances.

“Including me,” Fred said with pride. “Not that I killed him, so don’t go getting any ideas, but the man cheated. He liked to poach and he was always getting called out for foot faults.”

“Are we talking pickleball stuff?” I asked? I knew next to nothing about the game.

“Fred’s right,” Walter interjected. “Humphrey liked to come over to your side of the court and poach the ball and he was a mean son of a gun. He liked to poach your women, too.”

This was news to me. I had no idea that Walter, aka Mr. January, had a woman.

“Are you dating someone, Walter?” I asked with a smile and a little poke in his arm.

“I am now. Her name is Martha Mederios. She’s a recent widow and Humphrey told her to keep away from me because I wore those diapers for adults and had a few accidents on the court.” Walter’s coloring became crimson. “That’s an out and out lie. I had a bladder infection for one week. One week, and the man used it to ridicule me. Martha’s a nice lady and she saw through him, but he just liked to stir things up and embarrass people. It’s not right.”

“What about you, Howard? Any run-ins with Humphrey Bryson?”

Howard Wronkovich was a stern man. I don’t think I had ever seen him smile. He was the newest resident to the community and always wore a starched shirt under a sweater vest. Never married, he lived with his parents until they died. Howard was a good-looking man and I could see him being a threat with the ladies in Humphrey’s eyes—especially since his star turn as Mr. June.

“If I had any run-ins with the man, I would prefer to keep them to myself,” Howard said primly.

“Tell Alex what you know, Howard. It might help her catch a killer,” Fred urged his friend, but Howard was having none of it.

I decided to let it go. Maybe I could catch Howard alone at some point and see if I could prod whatever information he had out of the man.

“This is all very helpful, but did any of you ever notice Mr. Bryson having an argument with anyone? Or doing something that would, well, would get him killed?”

“Everything he did would get him killed, including jingling those damned coins in his pocket all the time, and he argued with everyone about everything.” Fred scratched his head and then looked up at me. “He really liked that Marie Dupre and boy, did that get her husband’s dander up. She’s a looker all right, but a new couple joined the pickleball league a couple months back and he took a real liking to the wife. What the heck is her name?”

“Phyllis. Phyllis and Lester Holt,” Howard said a bit too quickly. I wondered if Howard also had an eye for Phyllis.

“Right, right,” Walter said. “She’s the one with the wild red hair. Yeah, she’s a real looker, too.”

I glanced at Howard and saw him turn pink. It seemed there just might be something out there that got Howard all riled up after all. I was going to have to meet this Phyllis and Lester Holt.

“Anything else?” I asked looking at the three men.

“He was on the town council over there in Pirates Cove and if you got on his wrong side, come winter you’d find all the snow from the street pushed right in front of your driveway leaving you stuck.” Fred shook his head in disgust.

“And in summer,” Walter added, “your street wouldn’t get sprayed for mosquitoes and you know what a pain that is. Like I said, he was a mean bastard. Sorry, Alex.”

“No offense taken,” I smiled.

“I’ll tell you another thing,” Fred said, “that new guy, Lester, the two of them got into it over some crap Humphrey pulled on the court a few weeks back and Lester told him to knock it off and to watch out cuz he, Lester, planned to run for town council and Humphrey would be off the board. Humphrey just glared at him and said, bring it on. Next thing you know, Lester’s house is packed in with snow and he missed an important match with the team from Bridgeport. Boy, was he mad. Add that to the fact Humphrey was fawning all over his wife and you just may have yourself a killer.”

Could it be that simple? Could Humphrey Bryson’s untimely demise be because of some unwanted advances and fights over pickleball? Of course, I had to consider the weapon—a pickle. Maybe it was symbolic, but of what? I had no idea, but I needed to talk with Phyllis and Lester Holt and Humphrey’s son and granddaughter, and all the other team members. But right now I had a personal errand to do and so I headed back to Pirates Cove.

One of the things on my bucket list—and it turns out my mother’s and sister’s lists—is to get a tattoo, but for some reason I’ve never been able to do it. So we were all delighted when my grandmother took on a young man who wanted to open up a tattoo studio. Meme likes to help young people who have had some bad luck and so far she’s done a great job helping to turn some lives around. Sloth, aka Seymour Pratt, was no exception. With his help my mother, sister and I now had tattoos, albeit temporary ones, that we could put on and wash off whenever the mood struck us.

Body Expressions was his domain. And besides being a wonderful tattoo artist he also designed custom rosary beads. It was for the rosary beads that brought me to his shop today.

“I think you’re going to like them,” Seymour said, as he pulled a small box out from under the counter. He lifted them out and handed them to me. He was right. They were exquisite.

“These are perfect. She’s going to love them.” I looked at the rosary I had picked out for my niece Kendall. She had recently started Catechism classes and asked her mother for rosary beads. Kendall’s favorite color was a very pale pink and Seymour had used tiny crystals in a soft blush color and a contemporary cross in sterling silver.

“How’s Mrs. Redmond doing?” Seymour asked of my grandmother. “She came in to pick up some more bingo tats a few weeks ago but I haven’t seen her since.”

My grandmother had taken to wearing temporary tattoos with a bingo motif every time she went to a game. She was now selling them to all the other ladies at the bingo hall and Seymour had come up with some new designs. He also provided some temporary bad-ass tattoos for some of the calendar boys to wear in their photos and Mr. October was especially mean looking with a pair of motorcycle chaps, a leather vest, the tattoos and nothing else.

I told Seymour what happened at the pickleball banquet last night.

“I know that guy. The guy who got killed. Short, bald, right? He’s a real pain. I guess
was
a real pain.”

“How do you know him? Does he come in here?” I hadn’t noticed any tattoos on Humphrey Bryson, but then the man was fully clothed. Plus the pickle sticking out of his mouth was a major distraction.

“Believe it or not, he saw your calendar and wanted me to do one for him.”

“You mean with all the guys from the pickleball league?”

“No. Just him. He planned on being Mr. January through December. Wanted it done in time for the town council elections. Planned to give them out to all the voters.”

“When was this?”

“About six or seven weeks ago, I guess. I told him I was too busy. I just didn’t get a good vibe from the old dude.”

“Join the crowd.”

I left Body Expressions and sat in my car. Clearly our little calendar had made an impression on Humphrey, but so what? Did it have anything to do with his murder? Maybe he was gearing up for a good fight with Lester Holt and thought the calendar would bring in the female vote. Or maybe he was just jealous of the attention the calendar and its participants were getting and wanted in on a little action. I still couldn’t see how any of this would lead to murder, but it was time to pay a visit to Lester and Phyllis Holt.

Luckily the list Meme had given me was up to date and I found the address for the Holts. They lived in a nice house on a pleasant street in Pirates Cove and I found Lester outside using a good old-fashioned shovel to clear his walk.

“Mr. Holt? I’m Alex Harris. Could I speak with you about Humphrey Bryson?”

Lester stopped moving snow and leaned on his shovel. “Who are you again? The police?”