by Misty Simon
I looked over at him with my mouth agape.
He grinned at me. “Kidding. Now let’s get this show on our way home so we can see if there was any dirt on Chloe or Mac.”
I smacked him in the arm, then put the car back in drive. “You’re a dick.”
He laughed outright. “I am not, and I take offense to that. I was simply trying to alleviate the tension I felt from that encounter.”
“Good word,” I murmured, but he heard it and grabbed my hand to kiss my knuckles one at a time.
“I was going to alleviate all the tension in the car but thought broad daylight was probably not a good time to do that kind of alleviating, especially with Bartley coming along shortly behind us.”
I pressed the pedal to the floor. We could alleviate when we got home and then figure out our next move from there.
****
An hour later, I was feeling loose and limber and ready to take on the world, or at least one old lady across the street. First I had to make a stop at the Shoppe to make sure Charlie was hanging in there. Then I could go bug Myrt.
Pulling up in front of the store, I was pleased to see a lot of bobbing heads above the racks inside. Business was good, which, of course, made me happy.
That happiness did not last long when I realized Officer Rukey was inside, keeping the long line of customers waiting behind him while he questioned a frightened-looking Charlie.
I came in to hear him say, “Just because you are shacked up with the detective doesn’t make you immune to prosecution, Charles. Tell me what I want to know, or I’ll be forced to take you in for questioning. We can do this the hard way, or we can do this the easy way. Your choice.”
Everyone stared at me silently as I made my way past them with a full head of steam and scathing words practically boiling on my tongue. I stepped behind the counter to more effectively stare down my brand-new nemesis.
“Get out of my store.” My voice was low, my words menacing, and my recently plucked eyebrows beetled down hard over my eyes that could have been shooting laser beams.
Rukey took a step back at my vehemence. (Go me! With both word and action!) But one step back was not enough for me.
“Unless you have something on Charlie, or unless you have a legitimate reason for being in this establishment, you’d better make yourself scarce right this instant, or I will call the station myself and have you removed.” In truth, I had no idea if I could actually do that, but at this point I was certainly willing to give it a try. This guy was making me insane.
“I’ve heard of some code violations within your store and need to check them out for myself.”
Puffing myself up to my fullest height and girth, I leaned forward and rested my fingertips on the counter like I was about to pounce on him. “I had an inspection less than two weeks ago, just before you came on the scene. I am completely within the code. Now, get the hell out of here. As far as I know, we do not live in a police state, and until they send someone in who actually knows how to do their job without running around threatening everyone they come near, I do not want to see you again. For any reason.”
I tried the beady-eyes thing that Debbie had done to him on the first day at Myrt’s, but he didn’t flinch like he did with her. However, he did flip his notebook closed, turn very precisely on his heel, and stomp out the front door. The bell tinkled behind him as he left. I blew out a breath, and then the cheering started, with Francesca leading the pack. That had to be good for my in. Right?
I heard stories galore about him pulling people over for no reason and demanding to inspect their car for drugs and paraphernalia, speeding tickets for one mile an hour over the speed limit, violation tickets if their car was one hair over the parking space line at the grocery store, other tickets for being parked seven inches from the curb instead of six.
They were all sick of it, each woman talking to me as we rang them up and between themselves as they gladly waited in line for the woman who’d put the bully in his place.
It felt damn good, and it was a feeling I was going to ride for the rest of the day, even if I had to lock it to myself like a damn chastity belt.
****
After all the customers were taken care of and all purchases done, I did put in a call to Debbie.
“I have a very pissed-off deputy on my hands, Ivy. I told you to stay out of it,” she said in lieu of a greeting.
Two could play at that game. “And I had customers who were interested in purchasing fripperies and silky stuff who should not be hassled by some egomaniac trying to look over their merchandise like he was looking for cocaine.”
“This is not going to make him back down. You’ve only made it worse. I think you’re higher on his list than Ben now.”
“Well, he can just try to come get me. I am through. And just about every person in my Shoppe is too. You’d better rein your terrier in, Debbie, or you’re going to have an insurgence on your hands.”
And then I was listening to a dial tone. So much for trying to help. I was not in the wrong here, and while I did not always think our police department knew what it was doing, many people had the utmost faith in them. This one guy was shaking that foundation, though, and Debbie had better take that seriously.
There was nothing more I could do, but I would be on the watch for Rukey, and I would not be afraid to use my knee again if he grabbed me. If he was going to cuff me for assault, I was going to make it worth the punishment.
I put all that aside when the girls called to chatter at me about all the fun they were having in New York. I loved their voices and couldn’t wait for them to come back home. Time away was good for all of us, but it was hard being separated from the best two things I’d ever done in life.
After we hung up, with lots of air kisses and promises of more than virtual hugs, I was off to Myrt’s. There was nothing there, either, other than that we did not find a single nest of wasps anywhere, nor did we find the remnants of one. How the hell had they gotten in there, and where had they come from?
At this point I was at a loss, but I did have one more card tucked in my sleeve. I put in a call to Jared to see if he could tell me where Jameson was. My dad hadn’t been able to glean any useful information, so I was going to the source. The older detective and I did not always get along, but maybe he could tell me what to do with this Rukey guy, or at least get him to behave himself until he grew up some.
But Jared wasn’t able to help me, either. All he knew was that he hadn’t seen Jameson since the day Rukey showed up, and everyone was keeping very quiet about his whereabouts.
Damn.
I called a meeting of the dork squad at my house and had chips and dip ready as Stan, Martha, and Charlie walked through the door. If Bartley wasn’t going to help me, I was at least going to keep Charlie informed about what was going on so he could be on the lookout for anything unusual.
Mr. Winnet showed up next, and I was so happy to see him. He’d retired from lawyering about three years ago but had told me that if I ever needed him, he’d creak out of his own coffin to help. Wasn’t that sweet? Icky, but still sweet. He wasn’t part of the dork squad, but I felt we might just need his expertise.
When Bella walked through the door, Jared trailed behind her. I shook my head at her, and she nodded. Our silent conversation looked like one or both of us were having some kind of seizure. Jared put a hand on Bella’s head to stop the nodding.
“I’m not here in an official capacity, Ivy, but I heard what you did today. I have to say that took some guts. If there’s anything I can do to help, within my limits, I want to be informed.”
Well, okay, then.
“Who has what?” I asked as everyone dug into my guacamole.
I got a lot of shaking heads. Instead of sighing, I waited for Ben to arrive.
He walked through the door with a smile on his face. This had better be good.
“I think I know where we can start. I just took every flyer I could find for the Pickle Guy. That
might piss him off enough to make him show his hand when I find him.” He threw a reusable grocery bag on the coffee table, and a ton of pickle flyers slid out. “In the meantime, let’s all go with our strengths.”
“Okay,” Stan said, hesitantly.
“Stan, you got this,” Ben said. “Now, Ivy, line it up for us.”
I preened, just a little bit. “Jared, you find Jameson. Bella, talk to the biddies and find out if anyone held a grudge against Myrt. Martha, get the lowdown at the diner about anything weird with Mac lately. Ben, you get Harlow to talk to Chloe. Mr. Winnet, can you check to see if there are any cases against Mac? I know everyone loved him, but someone had to not be of the same opinion. Maybe he was at the wrong place at the wrong time, but we need to make sure.” I turned to Charlie. “I don’t know if you want to be involved here. This might make things rough at your house.”
“No more rough than they are right now. Don’t worry about me, Ivy. I want this solved too.”
“Then why don’t you see if you can talk to Dixie and find out what her grudge was against Mac? She’s the only person I’ve ever heard speak anything but positively about the man.”
Charlie saluted me and smiled.
I sent everyone off with assignments and stayed at home like I was some kind of war general or something. Ben went after Pickle Guy with all those flyers, but I decided to wait until we had everyone else’s info. We would reconvene in two hours and compare notes. I only hoped that no one else got dragged to jail in the meantime…
Chapter Eleven
Surprisingly enough, every single person came back without incident. No troubles, no issues, no arrests. They also came back with almost no new information, either. Crap. Harlow even trailed in after Ben, but he had nothing new after talking directly with Chloe. She said she didn’t know who would want Mac dead; everyone loved him as far as she knew. The way he described it made me wonder if she really was as sad as her sobs the other day.
That didn’t help with who had killed Mac, though.
So maybe we were dealing with mistaken identity. Did someone think they were hurting someone else and hurt Mac instead?
At this point I was out of ideas. Stan had gone to talk with Debbie, and he’d been pretty much kicked out of her office with barely a hello. Ben had tried to track down Pickle Guy but couldn’t find him. Then he’d taken the initiative and asked around to some of the other judges, but they knew nothing. Jared hadn’t been able to glean any info from any of his usual avenues—he wouldn’t tell me what those were, but I guess since he’d gotten nothing it didn’t really matter. Bella had approached the biddies, and the only thing she was told was to hurry it up. The Tasty Tomato Tournament was one of the most important events in the history of Martha’s Point, and the fiftieth anniversary was not going to be marred by this unfortunate happening.
That was not exactly the most compassionate way to describe a poor man’s death, but I certainly wasn’t going to take issue with them. Charlie had nothing from Dixie, who shrugged off his question and said it was old history, nothing current.
We were all sitting in the living room trying to brainstorm some more when Ben’s phone interrupted.
“One of the other judges,” he said, holding up the display screen on his phone so everyone could see Marlis Copenhaver’s name. He walked back down the hall to our bedroom to take the call, leaving us to sit and stare at each other. I had no idea if having this big a crew was actually helping or hurting, since I was so used to doing things pretty much on my own. Now I was feeling very responsible for the disappointment I could see covering everyone’s faces.
Five minutes passed, filled with chip-crunching and staring off into space. Longest five minutes of my life.
Until Ben came back in. His face showed no disappointment, but he was livid. “Another crop has been ruined. Whoever is doing this sabotage needs to hang!” he yelled.
Um, I wasn’t sure that killing tomatoes was exactly a hanging offense, but I thought better of bringing that up at the moment.
“Whose tomatoes got canned?” Stan asked, obviously thinking his pun was funny. Nearly everyone groaned, and he shrugged his shoulders. “It’s getting gloomy in here. I was just trying to lighten it up.”
“It’s fine, Stan.” Ben crossed his arms over his impressive chest. “Somebody set fire to Thelma Boden’s plastic greenhouse, and the arson investigators are out there, along with the cops.”
Jared scrambled to grab his standard-issue hat and the phone from his belt. “Damn, I missed a call.” He rushed to the door, then turned at the last moment. “I’ll call if I hear anything.” And then he was gone. Bella looked after him, while I looked at everyone else.
“We should all go home and get some rest, return to daily life. I don’t think we’re going to be able to figure this one out.”
Stan glared at me. “I didn’t raise a quitter. We can all go home and make a list of suspects and things we know, then get back together. This isn’t over until the fat lady sings.”
I belted out a show tune, and everyone laughed.
“Still not over,” Stan said, grabbing his deerstalker hat (Where the hell did he get that, and why was he wearing it in the middle of June?) and led the exodus out of the house.
****
With nothing more to do, and Charlie okay at the store by himself, I went to check the mailbox at the sidewalk. Maybe there was something interesting in the mail. Who knew?
And why on earth did I feel so depressed that we’d come up with nothing? Sure, I’d liked Mac well enough. And I wanted whoever had killed him to face justice, but I didn’t really have a stake in this one. Yet I was sad we weren’t making progress. Maybe I’d missed this more than I’d realized.
That struck me as funny. Who wouldn’t miss almost being shot, and attacked with a knife, and nearly strangled? Maybe I was the one who needed a hobby.
I shook off the weird mood and went into the house to sort through the mail. Folded in half was a flyer for that Pickle Guy. No postage, no return address, no metered mail. Which meant he had stuffed it in our box instead of having it delivered. If I remembered correctly, that was breaking a federal law. Maybe I should sic Officer Rukey on him.
I had fun daydreaming about that for a moment, until Ben came out of the kitchen like his heels were on fire.
“What’s up?”
“We have to go. Jared said there’s a flyer from the Pickle Guy at Thelma’s, pinned to the greenhouse plastic where the fire hadn’t gotten to.”
“Why on earth would that guy leave his freaking calling card pinned to the scene of the crime?” I asked the question before remembering my encounter with him, and, honestly, then I wasn’t as surprised. Maybe this was his version of vegetable terrorism.
“So we’re going to see the Pickle Guy?” I didn’t know why that made me feel queasy, but it did. At least I’d have Ben with me. Big strong Ben. I was counting on that being enough, if things got out of hand.
****
The drive out to Pickle Guy’s house—and yeah, I wasn’t sure that I’d ever stop calling him that, even though we’d been told most people called him Bran—didn’t take long, but as usual in the Northern Neck you can travel five miles and feel like you’re in the middle of the wild wilderness. We took so many turns down so many different roads that I was totally turned around. At least Ben knew where we were and where we were headed.
As we pulled through a pair of gates at the edge of the road, it was obvious they had not seen the benefit of a pint of oil in years. We drove down the lane, and I wasn’t sure if we’d ever see the house. Someone had not been concerned with straight lines when they put the driveway in. It felt more like the yellow brick road than a driveway surrounded by acres of grass.
When we finally did get to the house (really, it was only about forty seconds, but it felt like forever), I wondered who had decided to plunk a mobile home in the middle of all this grass. I mean, if you had enough money for the land, did you not think abo
ut the need for maybe a house that could stand for years on said property?
Not that it was my business, of course.
We parked in front of the trailer, then went to knock on the aluminum door. I stepped back, because I couldn’t be sure if the door would open out, and waited. Then I waited some more before knocking again. This time I heard movement inside, and lo and behold, the door did open out. I almost got clipped despite my caution, because the door swung wider than I had anticipated. Ben caught me at the last second, moving me back to the edge of the small wooden stoop in front of the house.
Looking up, I caught sight of a small, honeycomb-looking glob of pasty gray. Was that…? But I didn’t have time to inspect it because Pickle Guy was in the doorway, glowering.
“What?” Pickle Guy was obviously not in the mood for us.
Well, if he was really hoping for people to support his pickling campaign, he might want to be nicer.
“Hi, I’m Ivy, and I was just wondering if you could tell us a little bit more about the Pickle Extravaganza?” Even saying it sounded wrong in my ears. I guess I had lived in Martha’s Point long enough to get an ear for the expected, which is loads and loads of alliteration.
“Oh, hello, and thanks for coming by.” He stepped out of the house instead of inviting us in, forcing me back a step into Ben’s arms again. Not that I minded, but a little advance warning would have been nice.
“And I know you,” he said to Ben, stretching his hand out to shake.
Ben shook his hand, but no smile came to his face. “Then you have me at a disadvantage, since I only know you as Bran, from around town.”
“Wellington Branson, gentleman farmer and pickle aficionado.”
Oh, man. It was on the very tip of my tongue to ask if he preferred to be addressed like that anytime someone called his name, but it was not the purpose of the visit to rile him up, only to butter him up for questions. But between you and me, do you think he secretly liked to be called Welly? I didn’t think I’d ever find out.