Pickled (An Alex Harris Mystery) Read online

  “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.”

  Chapter 5

  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?”

  Mrs. Bryson shook her head. “No, but that’s very kind. I already called my son last night and there’s nothing in the papers yet. It was too late last night for the reporters to get anything in. I’m sure soon enough everyone will know and then this house will be filled with people wanting to make sure first-hand Humph is truly dead. No. For now I just want the peace and solitude.”

  “Well, let me make you a cup of tea and then I’ll be on my way.” I’m as nosy as the next person and I really wanted to know what she meant last night by there being plenty of suspects, but I also have a heart and if Sophie Bryson wanted to be alone with her grief I would let her be.

  “No!” she said loudly almost causing me to drop the canister of tea bags. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Please stay. You’re the one that solves murders, right?”

  “Well, yes, but I’m not with the police.”

  “I’ve overheard your grandmother talking about you. She’s very proud. She’s a lucky woman to have such a nice granddaughter.”

  “Thank you. I feel pretty lucky to have her, too. Do you have grandchildren, Mrs. Bryson?”

  “Sophie, please.” She took a sip from the cup I had just placed in front of her and looked up at me. “Yes, I have a granddaughter. Janet. An awful child. Listen to me. She’s in her thirties, for heaven’s sake, but she takes after our son. Robert is an only child and I’m afraid we created a monster. Humph bullied the poor boy and I coddled him. That combination does not make for a good man with an abundance of self-esteem and kindness. I’ve failed miserably as a parent.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say about that so I just poured boiling water into another cup and waited for her to continue.

  “I’d like to hire you to look into Humphrey’s death. I have plenty of money so whatever your normal fee is will be fine with me. I have the utmost confidence in our police force and I know they will get to the bottom of this, but I’m not sure they’ll handle things in a sensitive manner.”

  “A sensitive manner?”

  “I started to tell you last night, but we were interrupted. Humphrey Bryson was a bully, a cad, a cheat, a scoundrel, a rat and an all around horrible man. I have no idea why I’ve been crying over him. I guess I’m mourning what we had at the beginning or what I hoped we would have had all these years, but the sad truth is he slept with or at least tried to sleep with every female he met, he was involved in shady deals and God knows what else. I want you to find his killer as quickly as possible before all our dirty laundry is hung out for all of Pirates Cove and the surrounding towns to see.”

  I almost gasped at the intensity of her words. But if she thought she could contain her husband’s less than reputable reputation, she was wrong. The cat was already out of the bag according to Meme.

  “Oh, and one more thing, Ms. Harris. Humphrey planned to divorce me after fifty-five years of marriage and he vowed I would get nothing. He said he would rather kill me than see me get a penny of his money. I would imagine when that gets out I will probably ascend to the very top of the suspect list.”

  Chapter 6

  I wish I had a normal fee for Sophie Bryson to pay, but as I didn’t have any credentials as an investigator except for the marketing my grandmother was obviously doing on my behalf, I simply told Sophie I would help in any way I could. Of course, I was acutely aware of the fact I may have just been scammed by a murderess and the more I thought about it, shoving a pickle down Humphrey Bryson’s mouth did seemed like something a woman might do. Sophie was taller than Humphrey, but she was also thin and fragile looking. Would she be able to hold him still long enough to get the pickle down his throat? I tried to remember what she was like last night when I first offered to help her find her husband. She had been a bit agitated, which at the time I took for anxiety at not finding him, but maybe she had just killed him and was trying to compose herself.

  Mrs. Bryson might turn out to be a murderer in the end, but I also had another pretty good suspect and once again, I was able to find his address on the list Meme had supplied.

  Sid and Marie Dupre also lived in Pirates Cove, but in a slightly more modest neighborhood than that of Sophie Bryson. While their house was a good size and they had a lovely corner lot with several big trees, they were a couple miles inland from the Sound.

  I had to park a block away because of the snow pushed up along the sides of the road, but I was dressed for the weather and the exercise would do me good. I had consumed my fair share of potato salad and spätzle last night and the walk up the slightly inclined road felt good.

  I rang the bell and it was quickly answered by Sid Dupre.

  “Can I help you?” Mr. Dupre held a pair of glasses in one hand and a section of the Sunday paper in the other.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Dupre. I’m Alex Harris. I met you last night at the pickleball supper.”

  “Oh, right. Of course. You kept me from punching Humphrey’s lights out. Looks like someone else had a beef with him as well.”

  “So you know he was killed last night?”

  “It was on the morning news. Can’t say I’m shocked. It was bound to happen one of these days. The man had a way of making enemies.”

  “Would it be okay if I came in for a few minutes?”

  “Oh, of course. Sorry. Come on in.”

  I followed Sid Dupre through a small foyer into a den with a fire blazing.

  “I was just about to get another cup of coffee. Can I get you anything?”

  “A water would be fine.”

  A few minutes later Mr. Dupre came back to the den with a fresh cup of coffee and a bottle of mineral water for me.

  “So, what can I do for you?” He settled back into a chair with the rest of the paper sitting on an ottoman by his feet.

  “I was just over at the Bryson home and Mrs. Bryson hoped I might be able to shed some light on exactly what happened last night. I was actually the person who found her husband and I’ve had some experience with murder before.” My explanation for poking my nose into other people’s murders always sounded so lame but what else was I going to say?

  “So you’re not here on any official capacity?” Sid Dupre asked.

  Here it was. I’d be getting the boot out the door any second. “Well, no, I’m not. Like I said, Mrs. Bryson heard about some other murders I helped solve and felt I might be able to get to the bottom of this before, well, before—”

  “Before all their sordid affairs were made public? Too late. Everyone knows what kind of person Humphrey Bryson was.”

  “And just what kind of person was he?” I asked.

  Mr. Dupre stood up and walked over to the fire and poked it a couple of times and then added another log. He was not a very tall man but he looked like someone who worked out. His upper body looked muscled even through his shirt and cardigan, and I felt certain he would have no trouble holding down Humphrey Bryson and shoving a pickle down the man’s throat. Having stoked the fire, Mr. Dupre returned to
his chair and picked up his coffee cup.

  “What kind of man was Humphrey? Well, for starters he was a man who didn’t have a problem coming on to another man’s wife.”

  “I take it that was what upset you last night?” I asked.

  “It was. I’ve talked with him on many occasions about dancing with my wife and touching her in an inappropriate way, but, well, you saw him. Had his hand on Marie’s behind for God’s sake. I know he was just egging me on. Humphrey liked to egg people on, but it was just one time too many.”

  “One time too many?” I asked. I wondered if the man realized how his comment sounded.

  Sid Dupre’s rich brown eyes grew wide. “I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant was added to the other crap he’s been pulling lately I just had enough of the man for one night.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “I own the recreational vehicle dealership here in town. Boats and campers for the summer, snow mobiles and the like for the winter. We also have a small department for tractors and snow plows. I’ve supplied Pirates Cove and the surrounding town with plows for as long as I’ve been in business and that’s been about thirty years. Started small and provided good value and a great service department and things just grew over time.”

  “And what does this have to do with Humphrey Bryson?” I asked.

  “He’s on the town council and out of the blue he cancelled my contract.” Mr. Dupre’s color was taking on the same hue as last night. “Gave the business to some dealership in New Jersey. New Jersey, for God’s sake. Every time something breaks down or needs some servicing they’re going to have to haul the damn things to Jersey. And you know what? Turns out there’s some sad sack son of a friend of his who just started working there last summer.”