Pickled (An Alex Harris Mystery)

by Elaine Macko

  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?”

  “No, just a friend of Sophie Bryson. She’s asked me to look into her husband’s death. Were you at the banquet last night?” I didn’t recognize Lester but then a woman with crazy red hair came out onto the porch and I knew I saw her last night.

  “Phyllis, this here is—what was your name again?”

  “Alex Harris.”

  “Alex Harris. She wants to talk with us about Humphrey Bryson.” Lester gave his wife a smirk. “I guess we can give you a couple of minutes.”

  I followed the Holts back into the house. Lester took off his boots and then escorted me into the living room.

  “Tea or coffee?” Phyllis Holt asked.

  “Tea would be fine.”

  “So the jerk got himself killed.” Lester shook his bald head. “Bound to happen.” He smacked a piece of gum that had been in his mouth and then continued chewing. Loudly.

  Phyllis came in with the tea and took a seat. “So, what can we help you with?”

  “I heard you and Humphrey had an argument at one of the games and that you planned to run against him for the town council,” I said to Mr. Holt.

  “Man was a menace. I can’t understand how he got voted in to begin with, but he used his position to get his own way and to exact revenge whenever it pleased him. Had all the snow pushed up against our drive blocking us in. Next day it was gone. Not sure why, but you don’t do things like that.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mrs. Holt fidget. I turned to her and she looked away.

  “We moved down here from Vermont about a year ago,” Lester continued in between gum smacks, “to be closer to our daughter, and I was on the council up there. I think I can do some good things for the town, but it was going to be a dirty fight, I can tell you.” Lester Holt stroked his goatee and then looked at his watch. “We’re having dinner out with our daughter and I need to take a shower. Did you have anything else?”

  Lester left and I was just about to get up when Phyllis Holt reached over and put a hand on my arm. “Lester had nothing to do with what happened to Humphrey,” she said. She ran a thin hand through hair that was thick enough to cover the heads of several people. “He has an awful temper and after that thing with the snow I thought he was going to kill the man. Then I got a phone call from Humphrey and he said if I met him, he would have the snow taken away.”

  “And you met him? Let me guess, at the beach?”

  Phyllis Holt’s pretty features looked startled. “How did you know that?”

  I sighed. “Because you’re not the only one.”

  She looked like she was going to cry. “We didn’t do anything, really. I mean the man, well, he couldn’t you know, and I wouldn’t have let him anyway. I thought he just wanted to talk but he wanted to, well, he was a pig. I don’t think Lester knows. I told him I was meeting a friend for a coffee and some shopping, but, well, Lester is intuitive and I’ve never been able to keep anything from him.”

  “Was that the only time Humphrey called you?”

  Phyllis gulped. “All I wanted to do was play pickleball. I don’t know how he found out, but I, well, I had a drinking problem about ten years ago. I got a DUI. After that I stopped and haven’t had a drink since. I go to meetings over in Bridgeport and I’m proud I’ve been able to stay sober all these years, but he threatened to tell the team and my daughter. I don’t want my troubles to get out. It’s in the past and what would Lester’s chances be to get on the town council if that came out? Plus, I want to start up a business tutoring kids after school. Just part time. I love kids. You think their parents would want them being looked after by a drunk? Not that I am, but people hear you did something and they never forget.”

  “So as long as you kept meeting Humphrey by the beach he would keep your secret?”

  “Yes, that’s what he said. Listen, I didn’t want to meet him, I didn’t. You have no idea how repugnant the man is—was—but what other choice did I have?”

  I left Phyllis Holt to get ready for her evening and as I drove home to Indian Cove I had two thoughts—Humphrey Bryson was definitely a pig and Mr. and Mrs. Holt were now firmly on my list of suspects.

  Chapter 11

  Phyllis Holt was a fool if she thought Humphrey wouldn’t have brought up her drinking problem, past or not. If Lester Holt had looked like he might be capable of getting even one vote, Humphrey would have dredged up all the Holt dirt he could find. Mrs. Holt didn’t strike me as a stupid woman so I had to conclude she figured this out as well, and if she did, she might also conclude killing the man was the only way out.

  I didn’t understand these people. Why would both Marie Dupre and Phyllis Holt—who both seemed truly repulsed by the man—agree to meet him over and over? I had no answer except people do strange things—especially when they have secrets to hide.

  You needed to put bullies in their place, at least I would have. And Humphrey was old. I was lucky enough to be a mentally strong person, but others were not, and I felt sure Humphrey Bryson had finely tuned his radar to hone in on the weak. But still. I would never have agreed to meet the man down at the beach in the first place, and if I had done on some momentary lack of reasonable thought, the second the man tried to touch me would be his last second on this earth. So is that what finally did him in—one too many touchy-feely encounters?

  I continued my drive along the narrow two-lane coast road, made even more treacherous by the snow pushed along the sides, until I was back in my own town. The day was getting dark and it was a Sunday. Businesses pretty much closed shop early on Sundays, especially in the dead of winter, in Indian Cove and the small surrounding towns, but I thought I would chance a stop at the German deli just to see if they were still open.

  The German Delicatessen had only been in Indian Cove for a little over a year, having relocated from Long Island. It occupied a small shop a block off the main street that ran through the center of town. I had stopped by on several occasions, but most of the time I just ran into Kreuger’s market because that’s what I had been doing since I was a kid. But if the food from last night’s supper was any indication, I really should start giving the German deli some of my business.

  As I drove by I could se
e the place was shut down for the night, but a small sign on the door said they opened at seven on weekdays and I planned on stopping by for a piece of strudel on my way to work.

  I arrived home ten minutes later to find John already there and heating up some leftover baked macaroni and cheese for our supper.

  “Just in time,” my husband said as he planted a kiss on my lips. “I made a salad and steamed some carrots for supper. Hungry?”

  I had eaten my fair share of pot roast and mashed potatoes at my parents’ for lunch, but I do love homemade baked macaroni and cheese.

  “A little. I had a big lunch, but I could do with a bowl.”

  “Sunday lunch with your parents?” John knew me so well.

  “And Meme. And Sam and the kids. And of course Riley. Riley loves pot roast.” Ever since my parents adopted the little guy a few months before, I had toyed with the idea of getting a dog, but they were a lot of work and needed lots of attention. With our schedules, John and I barely found time for each other. And besides, I could go over and play with Riley whenever I felt like it. For right now, that worked just fine.

  I sat at the kitchen table and John brought me a bowl of macaroni and then set the carrots and salad on the table.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes and then I asked him if he had any information on Humphrey’s death.

  “He had some bruising on his arms and hands. And there was a bruise on his right leg. Looks like he put up a fight. Who wouldn’t?”

  “How did someone manage to hold him down and still get the pickle in his mouth?” I put my fork down and massaged my fingers. I’d been having quite a bit of pain in my hands and my left arm lately, and last week my jaw locked up and I could barely move my mouth. I was pretty sure what it was, but in the back of my mind I kept thinking it would go away and I wouldn’t have to deal with it.

  John stopped eating and looked at me. “Your hands again? Alex, it’s not going to go away. I think we need to go to the doctor and just deal with it.”

  “I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon.” I saw the pained looked on his face. “Sorry. I didn’t want to worry you. It’ll be fine.”

  “What time? I’m going with you.”

  “One. Now can we talk about something more appealing, like murder?”

  John kissed my hand and went back to his macaroni. “Humphrey was an old guy, but still, from all the bruising he definitely fought back. He had a large bruise on this left cheek bone and his wrists were both bruised and scratched. I think whoever killed him must have knocked him out with a punch and then put the pickle in his mouth, held his hands, maybe plugged his nose until he was dead.”

  “Did you get a chance to talk with anyone today?” Before I gave up the information I had gathered I wanted to see what the police were able to come up with.

  “The wife. There wasn’t a lot of love between them. And the son, Robert. He showed up to comfort his mother. Again, not a good relationship with his father. I talked with a few of the calendar boys.”

  “You don’t really think any of them had anything to do with this, do you?”

  “Alex, everyone is a suspect until they’re not. And I sent Jim over to talk with Meme.”

  “You interrogated my grandmother? John, what the hell?”

  “Not me, Jim. And she loved it. Theresa was over there and she took a picture of Jim and Meme together. Meme wanted him to cuff her for the shot but he said no.”

  “Geesh.”

  I finished my supper and while John cleaned the kitchen I went upstairs to take a hot bath and several Motrin and hoped that tomorrow I would know for sure what was causing all this pain.

  Chapter 12

  The German Delicatessen, as it was simply named, was already bustling. In addition to their deli counter, they also had a great selection of German pastries and it was for this that most people seemed to be standing in line so early in the morning. When my turn came I ordered enough strudel for the office and then asked to speak with the owner.

  Astrid Kaufman was a spry woman in her seventies. She was solidly built and had her long gray hair in a braid that wrapped around into a tight bun firmly placed at the back of her head.

  She wiped her hands on her apron, smiled, and extended her hand. “How can I help you?”

  “Mrs. Kaufman, my name is Alex Harris and I was the person who found Humphrey Bryson on Saturday night.”

  Mrs. Kaufman put a hand to her heart and shook her head. “I’m so sorry. That must have been a horrible thing for you. Are you related to him?”

  “No, not at all. I was attending the supper with my grandmother. She’s part of the pickleball league. Well, not a player but a viewer, and we also sell a calendar we put together.”

  Astrid Kaufman smiled and pointed to a far wall where a buffet stood with a container of napkins, a milk pitcher, sugar, and both coffee and tea pots. “I also have a copy at home in my kitchen.”

  “Well, thank you for purchasing them. The money we raise goes to some good causes. I’d like to take a moment of your time to ask you a few questions.” We moved over to a small table by the bay window and sat down. “Did you hear how Mr. Bryson died?”

  Mrs. Kaufman took a deep breath. “With one of our pickles. Why would someone do that?”

  “Did you know Humphrey Bryson personally?”

  “Yes, from the pickleball,” she said. “My husband, Carl, he plays. And I just started on the women’s team.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  Mrs. Kaufman sighed. “It’s not nice to speak ill of the dead, but Humphrey was ein tyrann, a bully, you say in English. He was mean and just seemed to want to be that way for the pure pleasure of it. When we moved here to start our business, we first went to Pirates Cove. Our son and his wife live there with our two grandchildren. The storefront we initially rented was owned by Humphrey. It cost a lot, but we wanted to be near the kids. We signed a lease and then he refused to fix all the things he said he would. It took us months and a lot of money to get out of that lease, not to mention the business we lost. He said if we rented then it was our responsibility, but that’s not what we signed on for. He and my husband got into it several times.” Astrid shook her head. “So we came here and decided to buy this shop. It’s still close enough to our family. But then Humphrey started spreading rumors about our food and the products we used. It took some time, but people eventually started to come and found out for themselves that we keep our place clean and we make good food. And to add to that, Humphrey was a mean pickleball player.”

  “In what way?”

  “He liked to do a cobra shot.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t play pickleball. What’s a cobra shot?”

  Mrs. Kaufman gave her chest a hard punch. “Here. Right here he hits the ball. On purpose. My brother Norbert got hit and fell down. It’s not good to fall at our age. Norbert and Carl refuse to play against Humphrey.”

  “I’ve heard this before, that he’s not a fair player. Why do they let him continue to be on the league?” I asked.

  “He sponsors the league from Pirates Cove. Pays for the equipment, the T-shirts and court time. But I think everyone was tired of it.”

  “Can you think of any reason why someone would use one of your pickles to kill him?”

  Mrs. Kaufman gave a small laugh. “Who kills with a pickle? It’s stupid. But what else was there? We didn’t bring sharp knives with us. All the cooking was done here and we brought everything to the hall. Did you enjoy the food?”

  “Yes. Very much. The pickles were actually very good. Someone told me Humphrey really liked them.”

  “He did. He liked all our food. I wanted to ban him from coming into the shop after all the lies he told about us, but Karl, well, he has a more forgiving heart than I do. Either he or his wife would come by about once a month or so and pick up a few things. I liked it better when she came in. A nice lady. He liked to brag all the time about his possessions and he would stand there, jingling c
oins in his pockets, talking, talking talking, taking up my time and making the other customers impatient.” She shook her head in disgust and then she looked at me and smiled. “The pickles are my specialty. An old recipe from my mother.”

  Astrid Kaufman continued talking, telling me about her German heritage. She seemed very proud of the fact she was able to open a deli and share all the recipes she grew up with as a child in Germany.

  “I use dill and garlic,” she said, describing the pickles. “And I add onions, mustard seed and just enough dried hot pepper to give them a real bite. And I use good apple cider vinegar.”

  I thought about that dried hot pepper and how horrific it had to be to have one of those burning pickles clogging your throat.

  I thanked Mrs. Kaufman for her time, took my box of strudel, and left, thinking all the while about something she said. There were no sharp carving knives and at our table settings, just butter knives. Obviously the killer didn’t bring along a gun or anything else, so was this a spur of the moment thing on the part of the killer? And if so, what had set someone off to the point of murder?

  Chapter 13

  My sister Samantha and I have a good thing going. We have our own business housed on the first floor of a quaint old house, and we have two great employees to round things out. Millie Chapman has been with us almost from the beginning and she runs the place with a precision that would make General Patton look like a slacker. And Marla Scottsman, our newest addition, is a part-timer who helps out with accounts and brings a sense of wisdom and logic to Samantha’s and my sometimes frantic personalities. Most people hate the thought of getting up and going to work, but I actually look forward to my day. I’m usually pretty busy, plus I get to spend time with nice people.

  “Hey, where’ve you been?” my sister asked the minute I walked in the door. “We’ve been waiting to discuss last night’s season premiere.”

  “Reinforcements,” I said. I held up the box of strudel, getting a big smile from Sam.