Town in a Sweet Pickle

by B. B. Haywood

  Julia looked aghast. “They’re not? But that’s a travesty, my dear! An affront to foodies everywhere! Why haven’t you put them out?”

  Candy stooped and retrieved the jar from a box on the floor she’d set it inside. As she rose, jar in hand, she said, “Well, because it’s an anonymous tasting. You’re not supposed to know where the samples come from.”

  “We’ll make an exception this one time,” Julia said, leaning toward her and lowering her voice again. “I’ve got to try one of them. Consider it . . . research. I’ve heard so much about them over the years.”

  “What have you heard?” Candy asked, looking up curiously as she set the jar on the table and, with some effort, unscrewed the lid.

  “Probably the same thing you have—that they’re the best pickles anyone has ever made.” She glanced across the table, toward the far end, where Herr Georg and Colin Trevor Jones stood with their heads together, talking quietly. She turned back toward Candy. “How many do you have?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s part of the problem,” Candy said. “Someone has already snitched a few of them.”

  Julia looked horrified. “How many are left? Enough for the judges?”

  “Barely.”

  “But no extras?”

  “Perhaps one or two, although I can always cut them into smaller slices.” Candy looked around for a plate and fork. She found them nearby and speared one of the pickles with the fork, lifting it out.

  Julia couldn’t help herself. She leaned in for a sniff, using a waving motion of her hand to direct the scent toward her nose. “They smell simply divine!”

  “Do they?” Candy asked, and she leaned in closer and sniffed as well.

  “Hey, what have you got there?” Herr Georg called from across the table.

  Candy looked over. Instinctively, she turned the jar so the label was pointing away from the other two judges. “Just a late entry,” she told him. “I’ll have it set out for you in a few moments.”

  “But there is so much here already,” Herr Georg said, waving his hand magnanimously across the table. “We barely know where to begin as it is.”

  Julia turned toward the German baker with a bit of a pout. “But, Georg, you simply must try these pickles. They are heaven sent! You’ve never tasted anything like them in your life.”

  “Then I suppose I must!” Herr Georg said, giving in way too easily. “How could I ever refuse such a beautiful woman?”

  “Now, Herr Georg, you’re engaged,” Candy reminded him. “Where is Maggie anyway?”

  “She’s still closing up the shop,” the baker said with a red face, properly chastised, “but she should be along shortly.”

  “If she hears about these pickles, she’ll want one for herself,” Candy said, “but there just aren’t enough to go around.”

  Feeling a little annoyed, she glanced around the room, her eyes searching. “I just wish I knew who got into them.”

  FIVE

  Doc’s eyes widened. He knew immediately where those pickles had come from. “You took them from that jar on the table!” he said, his voice rising as he pointed back the way he’d come.

  “Now, now, Doc, keep it down a little, would ya?” Ned motioned with his hand and glanced furtively to either side, but so far they hadn’t attracted anyone’s attention. His voice dropped into a harsh whisper. “I know this ain’t exactly copacetic, but how could anyone in his right mind find that jar of pickles and not take one or two?”

  “Or three!” Bumpy piped in jovially.

  “Three? You took three of those pickles?” Doc looked down at the paper plate in Ned’s hand, focusing on it for the first time, a shocked expression on his face.

  “I could have taken more,” Ned said, starting to sound defensive. “I left a few. I tried to be discreet.”

  “Discreet?” Doc blustered.

  “Well, at least I didn’t take the entire jar, right? Though I probably could have sold it on eBay and made a ton of money. Right?” He winked at Bumpy. “How much you figure I could get for a jar like that?”

  Bumpy shrugged and gave the question some serious thought. “Fifty dollars easy. Maybe more.”

  “Maybe more. Maybe a hundred.” Ned looked back at Doc with a nod of his head, as if that vindicated him. “See, I could have made some money off this deal. But I didn’t. I restrained myself and took only a few pickles.”

  “And what are you going to do with them?” Doc asked.

  Now it was Ned’s turn to look shocked. “What do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to eat them!” And to prove his point, he lifted one of the pickles off the paper plate and took a big bite out of one end. As he chewed, his eyes rolled up into his head in pleasure. “Hmm, pure ambrosia,” he said dreamily.

  “Ned, now cut that out,” Doc said. “Those pickles need to go back to the table for the judges.”

  Ned’s gaze sharpened. “If you think I’m sending these pickles back, you’re crazy.”

  “But this isn’t something you should fool around with,” Doc persisted. “Those aren’t yours for the taking. Someone left them there on that table with the express purpose of having them entered in this contest.”

  “And they’re still entered,” Bumpy said, flicking a finger across the hall.

  Doc turned. It took him a moment to determine what Bumpy meant, but then he saw his daughter at Table Four, opening the jar of Sweet Pickle Deli pickles she’d whisked away from him a short while ago. She had found a fork and was digging out a few.

  “See, they’re gonna get to taste them,” Ned pointed out.

  Doc turned back. “Makes no difference. There are other judges around here—honorary judges, twenty of them. They should get a chance to taste those pickles too.”

  “Honorary judges? Like you?”

  Doc was silent, since he didn’t want to admit that, yes, he coveted one of those pickles.

  Ned took another bite and dramatically savored it. He breathed deeply as he chewed and swallowed. “I wish I could give them back, Doc, I really do,” he said finally, “but I just don’t have that kind of willpower.”

  “Then I’ll just have to take them from you,” and in a sudden animated movement, Doc reached out to swipe the plate from Ned’s hand.

  But he wasn’t quick enough. Ned saw the maneuver coming. “Sorry, Doc,” he said, snatching the plate back out of Doc’s reach. Some of the previous warmth had gone out of his voice. “I’m not giving them up. There’s no way. They’re just too good. You know what they’re like, right? You remember? They’re the best, right?”

  “Sure are,” Bumpy agreed with a nod of his head. “Never been anything like them before or since. But I agree with Doc. They gotta go back. It’s the right thing to do, Ned, and you know it.”

  For a moment he seemed to have struck a chord. Ned’s expression softened, and he looked down at the plate, as if contemplating handing it over to Doc. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Guess I gotta hand them back.”

  But then he grinned wickedly. “Over my dead body!” And with a muffled laugh he stuffed the rest of the pickle into his mouth.

  SIX

  Julia von Fleming scrutinized the freshly cut slice of pickle from the Sweet Pickle Deli, impaled on the tongs of a plastic fork she held in front of her. “Luscious color,” she said, and sniffed it. “Tangy bouquet. Immature seed mass—obviously picked at the opportune time, when it was still young. It may have been in that jar for a while but it appears as fresh as the day it was made.”

  Herr Georg appeared equally impressed as he studied the slice he held up. “You’re right about that. No indication of spoilage. Firm rather than mushy. As far as I can tell they’re not slippery or mucky. Nothing to suggest they’ve gone bad. Quite the opposite, in fact. They’ve been well stored, that’s for certain—if they’re the real thing.”

  He sighed. “I had no idea these pickles were still around. There was a time when I’d eat one of them every day for lunch. I kept at least half a dozen jars in t
he pantry. Only finished the last one a couple of years ago. They were the type I always thought I’d make, if I owned a deli instead of a bakery. . . .”

  As his voice trailed off, Colin Trevor Jones glanced from the baker to Julia and back again. “They must be very special pickles. However, since we all know their origin, I suppose we can’t consider them for the competition.”

  Julia shrugged. “That’s probably true, but there’s no way I’m going to pass one up. They’re still worth a taste test.”

  “Oh, yes, I couldn’t agree more,” Herr Georg said.

  Colin nodded, expecting just such a response. “Then which of us should have the honor of the first bite?”

  “Oh, definitely the lady before the gentlemen.” Herr Georg bowed to his female counterpart. “Besides, you’re the one who heard the rumors the pickles were here. The first taste should be yours.”

  “You’re very kind,” Julia said, giving him a demure smile, “but I’d like to hear your opinion first.”

  Herr Georg waved his hand in a gesture of generosity. “Ahh, but the honor belongs to you.”

  As they chatted on, Candy’s phone buzzed. Her first thought was to ignore it, but realizing it might be Wanda, she pulled the phone from her blazer pocket and checked the ID on the incoming call.

  It was indeed Wanda Boyle.

  Candy flicked a finger across the screen and raised the phone to her ear. “Where are you?” she asked without preamble. “This thing’s half-over. You’re missing it.”

  When Wanda spoke, her tone was oddly muted. “I know. It can’t be helped. I’m at the hospital.”

  “The hospital?” Candy turned away from the judges, held her hand over her other ear to block out the noise in the gym, and lowered her voice. “Wanda, what’s going on? What the heck happened to you?”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line, as if Wanda had turned away to talk to someone—a nurse or doctor. When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse.

  “It appears I’ve been poisoned. They don’t know what type of poison yet, but apparently I got just a small dose, so it doesn’t appear to be fatal. I had to have my stomach pumped and they’re giving me all these antidotes—things I’ve never heard of, like atropine and dipotassium.”

  Candy was shocked. “What? How were you poisoned?”

  “It was a jar of pickles,” Wanda said, “sitting on the stoop at Sally Ann Longfellow’s house. I won’t go into the details, but I couldn’t help myself. I ate one of them and it was bad. Very bad.”

  “But weren’t those intended for the cook-off contest?” Candy asked, not completely understanding. “Why would you eat a pickle out of the jar Sally Ann left on her stoop?”

  “Because I couldn’t help myself, okay?” Wanda sounded a bit defensive. “It was sitting right there, right where Sally Ann left it. A jar of pickles from that old place down at the corner of Main Street, on the Loop. It must have closed down five or six years ago. That’s why it was so strange to see the jar there. But they were the best pickles I ever ate.”

  Candy felt her stomach tighten as she began to see the connections. “What was the name of this place?”

  “The Sweet Pickle Deli. You must remember it, right?”

  Candy, who had moved to the blueberry farm only a few years ago and was still considered a newcomer in town, shook her head. “Vaguely. I remember Doc talking about it, but I never went in there myself.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Wanda said dismissively, “but something strange is going on, and I thought you should know, just in case more jars show up. If you see anything like that sitting around from the Sweet Pickle Deli, whatever you do, don’t let anyone eat them, because they could be poisoned like the ones I found.”

  But Candy never heard the last part. She was already moving.

  Julia von Fleming, having acquiesced to Herr Georg’s insistence, was just about to take a nibble out of her pickle when Candy dashed up to her, swatted the offending pickled cucumber out of her hand, and sent it flying. Fortunately, it didn’t hit anyone, and instead landed on the gym floor with a splat! and skidded away.

  Julia squeaked in surprise, and for a few moments the two women stood staring at each other, eyes wide.

  “Sorry,” Candy said finally.

  “What . . . what was that all about?” Julia sputtered indignantly. “What’s going on?”

  “Um, there’s been some kind of mix-up,” Candy said vaguely, and turned to the other two judges. “Colin. Herr Georg. Put down those forks right away, please. I believe the pickles could be tainted.”

  “Tainted!” Julia’s eyes widened. “My heavens! What’s wrong with them?”

  “I don’t know yet. Just don’t eat them right now.”

  “They’re not fatal, are they?” asked Herr Georg, sounding concerned as he carefully laid his fork with the pickle slice down on the table.

  “I don’t know yet.” Candy hesitated to say more, concerned about causing a panic if word got out. She looked around at all the tables with food samples on them, and wondered if there were similar jars out there somewhere. Could something else be poisoned, some other type of food? A pie or a jar of jam? But no, she realized a moment later. Just about everything currently out on the tables had probably already been sampled by at least a few of the honorary judges. If something else was poisoned, she’d know about it.

  She looked up and around at the crowd still milling among the food tables, and wondered what to do next.

  Collect the rest of the pickles, absolutely. Seal the jar. Call the police.

  But should she shut down the tastings? Call a halt to the proceedings? Send everyone home early?

  Or would the police want to question some of them?

  She knew what that last thought inferred: Someone in this gym must have brought that jar of poisoned pickles in here and placed it on the table.

  But was it put there by mistake, or on purpose?

  And by whom?

  One name popped almost immediately into her head. Could it have been put there by Sally Ann Longfellow, who had apparently left out a similar jar of poisoned pickles for Wanda to pick up?

  The idea was too ludicrous to consider. Candy and Doc had known Sally Ann for years, and although she could be cantankerous and antisocial at times, she certainly was not someone who would knowingly—or willingly—poison her fellow villagers.

  But if not Sally Ann, then who?

  Candy scanned the room again, looking for anything or anyone suspicious, something that might give her a clue about this mysterious jar of pickles.

  Then she heard shouts coming from the far side of the room.

  She looked over and saw her father standing with a group of older men. One of them was lying on the floor.

  “He’s passed out!” she heard someone yell, and realized a moment later it was Bumpy Brigham who had spoken. “Give him some air!”

  “Careful there!” another voice called. “Maybe we should elevate his legs.”

  “Give him some room, give him some room!”

  Almost against her will, uncertain what she’d find, Candy started across the gym. As she approached the crowd along the far wall, she could hear more voices speaking over each other, offering advice and concern, trying to sort out exactly what was happening.

  “He just collapsed out of the clear blue sky.”

  “Strangest thing I ever saw.”

  “He was eating something, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s Ned Winetrop, isn’t it?”

  “Anyone got a pillow for the guy?”

  “Is he still breathing?”

  “Maybe we should call an ambulance.”

  “Already have.”

  There was quite a bit of commotion and confusion, and with all the people hovering around the prone figure, Candy couldn’t quite tell what was going on. But she spotted her father and hurried to him. “Is someone hurt?”

  Doc looked over and nodded. “It’s Ned, all right. I warned him but I co
uldn’t get him to stop. Probably choked on one of those darned pickles he was eating.”

  “Pickles? What pickles?”

  “Oh,”—Doc waved a hand as if he were annoyed—“he got his hands into that jar we saw sitting out on the pickled food table.”

  “Oh, no,” Candy said, her hand going to her mouth.

  “Oh, yes,” Doc said. “Ned’s always had a hard time resisting food. I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be the death of him this time.”

  But in the end, much to everyone’s surprise, and despite all their efforts, it was.

  SEVEN

  “None of it makes any sense,” Candy said half an hour later. She was perched on the edge of a folding chair, where she’d finally allowed herself to settle for a few moments. She was tired and frustrated, and it showed in her voice, which cracked a bit as she spoke.

  “I have no idea where those pickles came from,” she said. “I have no idea who left them there. And I have no idea why they were poisoned. I don’t even know how Ned Winetrop found them! This whole thing is one huge mystery.”

  Chief Daryl Durr of the Cape Willington Police Department sighed in commiseration, lifted his cap, and ran a hand through his steel gray hair. “I understand all that, Ms. Holliday, and we’re going to get to the bottom of this, one way or another. I promise you that.” He settled the cap back on his head. “I just wish you and Doc weren’t smack-dab at the center of this one—again. But it is what it is.”

  That got Candy’s attention. “Are we suspects?” she asked, trying not to let the idea rattle her.

  “Just like everyone else who was here today,” the chief admitted with a grim look. “Doc found the jar. Your fingerprints are all over it. And you’re the one who gave the pickles to those three judges.”

  “Yes, but, but . . .” Candy sputtered to a stop. She couldn’t think of anything to say. He was right.

  Sensing her discomfort, the chief continued, “I’ve got the gist of your story for now, so why don’t we take a break? I have a bunch of other folks I need to run down right now, but we’ll talk again soon, okay? I assume you’ll be sticking around here for a while longer?”