Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

  “Wanda specifically said she found a jar from the Sweet Pickle Deli on your porch.”

  “Then Wanda is mistaken,” Sally Ann said adamantly.

  “There’s no mistake, unfortunately,” Candy told her. “The police have the jar with the Sweet Pickle Deli label on it. The one sitting on your porch. The one Wanda found.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Not that particular one, no. But I’ve seen another one just like it, at the cook-off contest.”

  “And those pickles were poisoned?”

  Candy nodded. “Three jars have been found so far, all containing poisoned pickles. But yours was the first. That’s why there was trouble out at your place.” And Candy explained how Wanda had wrestled with Cleopatra for possession of the pickles, and how the goat had eventually won, though Wanda still got a taste of one of them, which sent her to the hospital.

  Sally Ann listened in rapt attention, suddenly silent, as she eased back a few steps and finally lowered herself into a folding chair set against the wall opposite Candy. She appeared to have difficulty believing what she was hearing, but she focused hard on every word.

  When Candy finished, Sally Ann could only shake her head in confusion. “But that’s not what happened. That’s not the jar I left out,” she repeated, “or, maybe, not the one I intended to. Maybe”—she paused as she reached up to scratch at her damp hair—“maybe I left out the wrong one. I was in a hurry this morning, that’s for sure, and I have lots of jars of pickles, including a few from that old deli. I’ve held on to them for years. Stashed them away in the back of my pantry, though I’ve kept them separate from the others, so I wouldn’t mistake them for a jar of regular pickles. Wanted to make them last, you know. I had three left until I opened one of the jars last winter. Now there are only two.”

  “And the pickles from the jar you ate last winter didn’t make you sick?”

  “Sick?” Sally Ann shook her head. “They’re still the best damned pickles I ever ate. They made my day, every time I ate one of them. Helped me get through a tough winter.”

  “And none of the pickles you’ve eaten in the past from the other deli jars have made you sick?”

  “Nope. Not in the least.”

  Candy pondered this latest bit of information. “Maybe the one you left out for Wanda was an aberration—just a jar of bad pickles.”

  Sally Ann threw up her hands. “But that’s just it. I didn’t leave out a jar of those deli pickles—at least I don’t think I did. They’re just too good to give away.”

  “Then why did Wanda find one on your stoop this morning?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure I left out a jar of my own pickles. That’s the point, right? Wouldn’t have been fair to enter a jar of professionally made pickles. In fact, I thought commercial establishments were barred from the cook-off. It was for amateur cooks. So I never would have left out a jar from that deli. I left out a jar with my own label on it.”

  “That’s not what Wanda found, and not what Cleopatra ate,” Candy reiterated.

  “Then something fishy is going on,” Sally Ann said, her growl returning. “I suppose that’s why you’ve been looking for me all day, isn’t it? You thought I left those poisoned pickles there for Wanda to find. And then, what, left others around town as well? You thought I was a murderer or something?”

  Candy had to admit there had been some rumblings to that effect.

  “Well, it just ain’t true!” Sally Ann rose out of her chair indignantly. “I’ve been a part of this community for more than thirty years now, and I’d never do such a thing!”

  “I know that, but you need to go to the police and tell them what you just told me. That’s the best way to handle this.”

  “But I can’t!” Sally Ann protested. “From what you just said, I’m the prime suspect in this mess. If I walk into that police station right now, they’ll just lock me in a jail cell and throw away the key!”

  “No, they won’t. They need to hear what you have to say.”

  Sally Ann’s face pulled down in thoughtfulness. After a few breaths, she said in a more controlled tone, “This is why I came to see you first, instead of going to the police. I wanted to get the real story. And now that I know where I stand, I need your help in clearing my name.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” Candy said supportively.

  “I can’t be held responsible for this! It’s just some sort of mix-up.”

  Candy considered that. “Maybe it wasn’t a mix-up at all. Maybe it was deliberate.”

  “Deliberate? What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it’s possible someone else switched those jars, on purpose.”

  “On purpose?” Sally Ann repeated, incredulous. “So you’re saying I’m being framed?”

  “It’s one possible explanation, yes.”

  Sally Ann looked stunned. “Why would someone do that?”

  “That’s what we have to figure out,” Candy said. “It all goes back to those jars. If what you just told me is true—that you left out a jar of your own pickles this morning—and Wanda found a different jar filled with poisoned pickles when she stopped by, then the most logical explanation is that someone switched them—a third party.”

  “Then we have to find this . . . this third party,” Sally Ann said. “And fast, before they cook my goose!”

  “Is there anyone who has a grudge against you,” Candy asked, “someone who might do something like this to you?”

  Sally Ann shrugged. “It’s possible, I suppose. I’ve lived here for a long time. I’ve made plenty of friends over the years, and a few enemies. But I can’t think of anybody in particular who might be behind this.”

  “Well, something strange happened with those jars,” Candy said. “If they were switched, we have to prove it some way. We have to make sure you left out your own jar of pickles, since that’s a key point. Is there any way we can verify that?”

  “I give you my word,” Sally Ann said, holding a hand over her heart. “And my word has always been good around this town.”

  “I appreciate that, Sally Ann, but we need something more solid.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “It’s not a matter of belief. It’s simply a matter of fact.”

  “Well, if that’s the case,” Sally Ann said with a sniff, “then I know for a fact I left my own jar of pickles out on that stoop. And I can prove it!”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Candy shut off the lights and locked both office doors behind them. Outside, the rain had picked up again. It fell from the sky at a steady pace, pattering against the sidewalks and glass storefronts, creating a steady rhythm. Beyond, she could hear the rumbling waves as they crescendoed against the nearby shoreline, then hissed and fell back.

  Sally Ann had rezipped her black raincoat and plunked the broad-brimmed hat back down on her head, so low it almost touched her eyebrows, putting her face in shadow again. Candy buttoned up her own jacket and hunkered under her umbrella as she hurried up the avenue to Main Street, where she’d parked the Jeep. Sally Ann made off at a different angle, heading across Ocean Avenue to an old green Volvo station wagon.

  Less than ten minutes later they both pulled into the long gravel-fringed driveway at Sally Ann’s place. Candy half expected to find a police car waiting out front, on the lookout for Sally Ann. But they’d already been here and gone, and apparently they’d felt no need to hang around. Most likely they were out running down other leads, she thought. Still, she imagined they’d stop by again sooner or later.

  Sally Ann’s house was dark and looked deserted on this overcast night. No lights were on anywhere on the property or in the house. Here, a little further inland, the rain had given way to a fine mist and thick shrouds of fog, which lingered low over the treetops and were strewn across the gardens behind the house, creating an eerie landscape.

  Sally Ann pulled up alongside the house ahead of Candy, jumped quickly out of her car, and headed back behind the house. By
the time Candy brought her Jeep to a stop, Sally Ann had reached the goat pen. Located about twenty feet behind the house and sturdily built, it traditionally hadn’t done a very good job of corralling her two animals. They had proved a clever and mischievous pair, and had caused plenty of trouble around town over the past few years.

  But perhaps because she was the only one left, Guinevere had not attempted to break out of the pen. She waited impatiently inside, apparently put there by one of the police officers who had been out here this afternoon, Candy guessed. From where she sat inside the Jeep with the windows rolled up, she could hear the goat’s unhappy bleats, a series of meh-heh-heh-heh-hehs in descending pitch, and watched through the still-flapping windshield wipers as Sally Ann reached the shed, flung open the door, and fussed with the nanny goat for a minute or two. Then, satisfied the animal was all right for the time being, she left it there where it was and locked up the pen again.

  She started back toward the house but suddenly veered to her right, toward what looked like a small dark pile under a canvas tarp that had been staked down at the corners. Sally Ann approached the tarp cautiously and stopped several feet away. She knew what was underneath, but wasn’t quite ready to have a look yet.

  “I’ll have to bury the poor thing, maybe out by the lilac bushes. She loved those bushes,” Sally Ann told Candy once they were inside the house. She flicked on an overhead kitchen light and began to strip off her wet gear, throwing it over the back of a chair. “I always said she ate too much for her own good—that some day it would get her into trouble. I told her that over and over. But she never listened to me. She had a mind of her own.”

  Sally Ann paused, her face turning stormy. “’Course, I never thought someone would poison her with a jar of pickles left on my doorstep.”

  “How’s the other goat?” Candy asked as she leaned her umbrella against the wall by the door and unbuttoned her jacket.

  Sally Ann shrugged. “As good as can be expected. She knows something’s wrong and she’s upset. They were like twins, you know—they’ve never really been apart. Cleopatra was the leader, of course, the alpha female, so to speak, while Guinevere was the follower. But she can be a troublemaker in her own right if she has a mind to it.”

  Sally Ann stuck her hands in her pockets as her shoulders sagged forward. “This is quite a blow. It’s going to take a while for us both to cope with the loss. But somehow we’ll manage. At least Guinevere was smart enough not to eat any of those pickles. She always was a bit of a fussy eater—for a goat.”

  “If there’s anything I can do,” Candy said sympathetically, “just let me know.”

  Sally Ann’s gaze shifted toward her. “Now that you mention it, there might be a way you can help out and give Cleopatra her due. You going to be in your office tomorrow?”

  Candy thought about it a moment. “I’m not sure yet. It’s Saturday. I have a lot scheduled. But I shouldn’t be too far away. Just give me a call if you want to meet up.”

  Sally Ann nodded a single time. “Okay then. I might stop by.” She crooked a finger. “So let me show you what we came to see—and put my own mind at rest.”

  Candy followed as Sally Ann headed out of the kitchen and into a dark hallway, which connected the kitchen with the living room and lower-floor bedrooms. Halfway along, under a steep staircase that led to the second floor, she stopped in front of a small wooden door, perhaps three-quarters of the normal height. “Basement,” she said, indicating the door. “You’ll have to duck a little.”

  She pulled open the door and tugged on a string along one inside wall. A single naked overhead bulb flicked on as a cool, musty draft drifted up from below.

  Candy looked over Sally Ann’s shoulder and saw a narrow rickety wooden staircase descending to their left, into inky blackness.

  “Furnace is down there,” Sally Ann said, “and the wash machine. But here’s what I wanted to show you.”

  Candy had already noticed. The open triangular-shaped area under the upper stairs was outfitted with shelves of various heights and depths. Narrower shelves also lined the side walls. The shelves, mostly full, held a variety of cans, jars, and bottles. Candy noticed homemade tomato sauce and applesauce, jars of honey and jams, some canned goods like chili and soups, as well as coffee, molasses, maple syrup, apple cider vinegar, and more.

  This was Sally Ann’s makeshift pantry and cold storage.

  “I keep the pickles here, on this big middle shelf,” she said, pointing to a deep shelf under the stairs. It held more than two dozen jars, by Candy’s quick count. “I make up a full batch every year,” Sally Ann continued. “They usually last me until late spring, and if it’s a particularly good batch I’ll save a few jars for a later time. That’s what these are.”

  She indicated a smaller group of jars off to one side. “And these,” she said, taking a step down and focusing in with her thick index finger, “are, as I suspected, my last two remaining jars from the Sweet Pickle Deli.”

  Candy spotted them now, toward the back of the smaller group, tucked into the wedge near the rear of the shelf. She tilted her head slightly. Something about them didn’t look quite right.

  “I bought those jars myself, right in the deli when it was still open, so I can vouch for their authenticity,” Sally Ann went on. “I had three jars before last winter, like I said earlier. Still have two. So, you see,” she concluded, turning back toward Candy, “I couldn’t have put that jar from the Sweet Pickle Deli out on the stoop this morning for Wanda. Because if I had, there’d only be one jar left here on the shelf. Simple math.”

  Candy could see her logic, although she was taking Sally Ann’s word about the number of jars she’d had last winter. But that wasn’t what caught Candy’s attention. Instead, she was focused on the jars themselves, rather than how many remained on the shelf.

  “Could I see one of those?” Candy asked, pointing toward them.

  Sally Ann gave her a skeptical look. “Why, something wrong?”

  “They look . . . different,” Candy said hesitantly. “I’d just like to get a closer look.”

  Sally Ann considered the request for a moment and then shrugged. “Okay, I’ll bring them up to the kitchen.” She reached out across the shelf and corralled the two jars, which she held close to her body as she retreated up the steps.

  Under somewhat better light, she set the two jars down on the kitchen table.

  “They look different than the jar I saw this afternoon,” Candy observed, leaning over and getting in closer. “The labels are green but a different shade, and the lettering looks different, like it’s another font, similar but not the right one. Or, I guess, this could be the right one and the others weren’t. These jars are different in size and shape too. They’re a little taller and narrower. The one I saw this afternoon was thicker and shorter.”

  She straightened and looked over at Sally Ann. “Did the Sweet Pickle Deli sell different types of pickles in different jars, with different labels? Or could these be from another batch, maybe made in a different year than the one I saw this afternoon?”

  Sally Ann shook her head. “There were a few varieties of pickles, sure, but far as I know the jars and labels were all the same. He was cheap—he bought everything in bulk to save money.” She waved at the jars. “The labels on these have faded over the years, and they’re probably a little dusty from sitting on that shelf for so long. But the pickles are just fine. Here, I’ll show you.”

  She stepped forward in a quick, unexpected movement, took one of the old jars from the Sweet Pickle Deli, and with a little effort unscrewed the lid.

  “What are you doing?” Candy asked in surprise. “I thought you were saving those.”

  “No time like the present,” Sally Ann replied with a wistful smile, and reaching into the jar with her fingertips, she withdrew a juicy spear and took a bite.

  Candy was horrified. “Sally Ann! What if those are poisoned?”

  The other woman simply shook her head. “Not a
chance. Like I said, I bought these myself. They’ve never left my pantry.” She took another bite of the pickle. “Trust me, they’ve never been tampered with. Unless they were poisoned back when they were made, of course. But I doubt that. They should be perfectly fine.”

  And she was right. As she finished one pickle and started in on another, the minutes ticked by and Candy watched nervously. But Sally Ann showed no negative reaction to the pickles. In fact, they seemed to lift her spirits a little.

  “Here,” she said, holding out the jar toward Candy. “Try one. They’re delicious. Unlike anything you’ve ever tasted.”

  “I don’t think I should.”

  “You’ll be sorry if you don’t.” She wiggled the jar at Candy. “Trust me,” she said in a voice with a commanding edge to it. “I wouldn’t put you in danger if I wasn’t positive about what I’m doing.”

  Something in her tone convinced Candy, who finally relented. After all, she told herself, she had to see what all the fuss was about. At worst, if she took a small bite, she’d wind up in the hospital having her stomach pumped.

  But there was no need for a trip to the hospital, as Sally Ann was true to her word.

  The first pickle, unlike anything she had ever tasted, went down before Candy knew she’d finished it. The aroma was earthy and fragrant, the flavors still fresh and tangy, with an uncanny crispness, as if the pickle had been made the previous day, not five or more years ago. And certainly not like anything she’d ever bought in a supermarket—or a farmer’s market, for that matter.

  “What’s in them that makes them taste so good?” Candy asked as Sally Ann, who was on her third pickle, held out the jar again. Candy couldn’t refuse a second one.

  Sally Ann shook her head. “No one knows. Many tried to pry the recipe from Old Man Maurice, but he never gave up his secrets—not that anyone ever expected him to. He was not what you’d call a people person. He was a grouchy old cuss.”