Death of the Pickle King

by Marlene Chabot

  It wasn’t until Ralph Nash’s deep baritone voice sounded behind me that I became aware the couple from our building hadn’t budged an inch after all. “Honey, tell Mary about the interesting field trip coming up.”

  Gertie smiled at her hubby. “That’s right. Thanks for reminding me, dear. I had forgotten all about it.” Gertie flipped her hair behind her ears. “Ah... Mary, I planned to call you later, but as long as we’ve bumped into each other, I might as well spit it out now.”

  “This isn’t about Butch, is it?”

  Gertie suddenly grabbed her husband’s arm like she needed his moral support. “Nope, nope this doesn’t pertain to him. I... ah, signed you up to help chaperone a field trip when I was at Washington Elementary this afternoon. They were short on volunteers and I didn’t think you’d mind,” she gushed, exposing teeth that clearly needed attention. “It’s right up your alley.”

  She’d some nerve signing me up to chaperone a trip without checking with me first. Normally I’d be madder than a wet hen, but tonight I wasn’t. Anytime I can sub or help out with other causes at Washington Elementary I’m more than happy to do so. Ever since the economy went south and I got a pink slip from the school, I’ve tried to put in as many appearances there as possible to better my chances of getting rehired when the need arises. “Well, it depends. What day of the week is it? Where are they taking the kids?”

  “I knew you’d be interested. It’s the perfect trip for you and I’m going too.”

  I rested a hand on my hip and stared at Gertie. Dear God what did this woman get me into. “That still doesn’t tell me anything. What exactly did you sign me up for, Gertie? And when is this bus trip?”

  She squeezed Ralph’s arm and stood on her tiptoes, making her closer to my five foot six height. “You’re not going to believe this, but the second graders are touring a plant in St. Michael tomorrow.”

  “Okay. But what’s so interesting in St. Michael worth a road trip there?”

  “The Hickleman Pickle Plant where Butch used to work. What a coincidence, huh? Please say you can help out.”

  “Hmm?” I tapped my fingers on my chin. “You’re absolutely right, Gertie. Being a chaperone on this specific trip is perfect. Not only can I see what the pickle plant is like without anyone getting suspicious, but I’ll also gain knowledge about the company which will be beneficial to me when I speak with Butch.”

  The woman patted me on the back. “That’s the spirit, Mary. See you tomorrow morning at nine sharp.”

  ~8~

  Day 3

  The six-foot middle-aged man, who was dressed in an ivory colored lab coat, held our group hostage in a cramped lobby while he handed out lime-green hairnets and safety glasses. When his task was finally completed, he shared information specifically directed at the children. “Remember, kids, safety first is our number one priority at the Hickleman Pickle Plant.”

  The man’s name tag read Paul Mason, Shift Supervisor. “It’s easy to get lost in a big place like this,” he continued, “especially if you’ve never been here before. So I’m asking that you please remain with your chaperones at all times during the tour today. Chaperones, perhaps you’d like to hold onto the children’s special eyewear for a bit. They’re not required to wear them outside, where our tour starts, just when walking around indoors.”

  The second I strung seven pairs of safety glasses on my arm plus my own, two of the girls took ahold of my hands. I knew their game plan by heart. They’d be stuck on me like gum on a shoe until we got back on the bus.

  Gertie nudged my elbow. “What do you think, Mary? We’re pretty glamourous, huh?”

  I shrugged off her comment. I didn’t know who she thought she was fooling. I had no idea what I looked like, but the woman standing next to me wearing hairnet and goggles reminded me of a toad on steroids.

  “Did you bring your cell phone?” she asked, smiling broadly. “Someone needs to take a picture of us in this getup so we can post it on Facebook.”

  I’d die before friends of mine caught me in this two-bit costume. “No, I left it at home,” I lied, thinking how clever it was of me to shut the phone off and tuck it in my coat pocket before joining everyone on the bus at Washington Elementary.

  Gertie sighed. “Oh, well, I guess we don’t have time to take a picture anyway. Our tour guide is ready to roll.” She pulled off her goggles and slung them on her flabby, heavily tattooed arm with the others. “Talk to you later.”

  Not if I can help it.

  I faced the children assigned to me and made a snappy count, making doubly sure no one had taken off for the bathroom without informing me. Seven kids exactly. “Okay, kids let’s move out.” I held the exit door open and waited until the last child in my group had trotted past me before joining them in the plant parking lot.

  Being outside in November for any amount of time with kids can be risky. If it hadn’t been for the mid-thirties temperature and the sun smacking our backsides, there would’ve been a mutiny on the grownups hands and I would’ve missed seeing the outdoor open brine vats where cucumbers begin their pickling process journey and where Don Hickleman ended his.

  Before we climbed the steps to view the huge vats off to the left of us, Paul shared a bit of background on where the plant’s supply of cucumbers comes from and what happens to them the minute they are delivered via truck, summer or winter. “We are proud to share that Hickleman’s chooses only handpicked cucumbers for pickle consumption,” he said. “Our supply comes from different locations depending on what time of year it is. One truckload may come from Canada or Mexico. At other times they are brought to us from towns in Minnesota, and other Midwest states.

  “After the trucks arrive, the cucumbers are unloaded, weighed, and graded a couple feet from where you’re standing,” he said before pausing to catch his breath.

  The instant he stopped talking a hand shot up, belonging to a dark-haired boy from Gertie’s group.

  Paul acknowledged the child. “Yes?” While waiting for a reply, he shoved his dark-brown plastic eyewear closer to his forehead.

  The boy nodded. “Mr. Mason, do the cucumbers get As, Bs, or Cs for grades? That’s what we get on our school work.”

  Our tour guide smiled. “Actually we use the numbers one, two, and three for grading purposes. Cucumbers given a one or two will be made into whole or sliced pickles. Those graded a three will be used for relishes.”

  The boy squirmed. “Ish. I don’t like pickle relish.”

  “That’s all right,” Paul replied. “Not everyone likes pickle relish, but it sure tastes good on hotdogs and hamburgers. Are there any other questions?” No one raised their hand. “Okay, everyone, please follow me. You’re going to see what happens to cucumbers after they’re sorted into the three groups.”

  The little girl in the baby-blue jacket, who had claimed my left hand, was squeezing the dickens out of it. I opened my mouth to tell her to let up, but she popped a question first. “Miss Malone, why aren’t we going inside yet? I came to see how the pickles are made not to listen to that old man talk.”

  I tried loosening her grip, but didn’t succeed. “See those wood vats on that raised platform straight ahead?”

  “Ah huh.”

  “If you want to find out what happens to cucumbers before they end up in jars, we need to go up on the platform and take a peek inside them.”

  “What are they used for?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. This is my first time touring the pickle plant too.”

  “Oh?”

  “So do you still want to go inside?”

  She pumped my hand. “Nooo, that’s okay. We can go inside later. I want to see what everyone is looking at.”

  I led her up the steps and drew us as close to the vats as possible. Being one of the shortest children on the tour, the girl wouldn’t see much until the majority of kids moved off the platform, which was fine with me. It meant I’d have more time to think through how Don Hickleman was outsmarted by a
murderer and ended up floating in one of the humongous barrels.

  Once the adults in our tour group managed to get all the children quieted down, Paul began to explain the vats and what they held. “These seventy wooden barrels lined up along this platform, each twelve feet in diameter, are referred to as holding tanks or vats and must be kept wet at all times so they don’t dry out. Right before any sorted cucumbers are hauled up here and dumped in these containers we have to fill the bottom of each one with six to eight inches of salty water or what we call brine.”

  “What’s the reason for putting a bit of brine in first?” Gertie asked.

  “You need a cushion for the cucumbers so they don’t bruise when they’re poured in,” Paul replied. He bent over, picked up a bushel basket, and held it over his head. “How many of you kids have seen a bushel basket like this filled with apples?” Half the second graders raised their hands. “Each of these vats on this platform can hold six hundred bushels of cucumbers. That only leaves a foot of space at the top of the vat, but it’s enough to add six inches of salt brine again. Incidentally, kids, salt brine plays a big part in the pickling process. It changes the texture and taste of cucumbers and helps kill bacteria.”

  “How long do the cucumbers sit in the salt brine out here?” one of the parent volunteers inquired.

  Paul directed his attention momentarily to the person who asked the question. “Approximately six weeks for fermentation to take place. Kids, up against the vats, would you mind moving back and letting those behind you move forward so they can see what a filled vat looks like too?” The children shifted like he asked. “Thanks. Are there any other questions before we head inside?”

  Gertie spoke up. “Yes, how do you make sure the cucumbers that float to the surface don’t stay there the whole six weeks?”

  “We have long tools to push them down again.”

  Sensing the tools Paul spoke of could be of importance to the case I now planned to take on, I made a mental note to find out what they looked like.

  The girl holding my hand got impatient with me. Anxious to see inside a vat she pulled my arm like it was the handle of a wagon. “Wow, Miss Malone, that’s a lot of cucumbers for one barrel.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “I wonder if anyone’s ever fallen in there?” she said, quickly backing away from the vat. “I wouldn’t want to.”

  “Me neither. It’s pretty scary.”

  She looked around the platform. “I don’t see any covers to keep the animals out.”

  I let go of her hand. “Why don’t you ask our tour guide about covers?”

  “Okay. Hey, mister, do you ever cover the vats?”

  Paul came over and stood by her. “No. The tanks are left open so the sun’s rays can prevent the growth of yeast and mold on the brine surface.”

  “But what about animals?” she whined.

  He crossed his arms and sighed. “We haven’t had any problem with them.”

  No, just humans.

  I took the little girl’s hand and turned her in the direction of the steps. “Come on, I think we’ve seen enough. Let’s get our group together and go inside.”

  THE FULL TOUR LASTED a little over an hour, but our time at the plant hadn’t ended yet. The children would now proceed into the employee lunchroom to sample pickles and eat their bagged lunches.

  While my group of kids stuffed their faces along with their peers, I strolled around the medium-sized lunchroom and took a look at the corked bulletin board hanging on the far wall by the fridge. The collage tacked to it intrigued me. Someone had actually taken the time to create a huge picture consisting of employee photos. I studied the sixty-some faces staring back at me. Could one of them have hated Hickleman enough to kill him?

  Fifteen minutes later, the kids and grownups hopped on the bus again, heading to Washington Elementary. While the students chatted among themselves, I relaxed and began to process the world of Hickleman, including the tragedy that had most recently unfolded there and Butch’s past problems with the company.

  One visit to this company wouldn’t suffice. You couldn’t possibly draw any conclusions. In order to resolve the serious situation Butch found himself in, a person would have to devote equal time to his last incarceration as well as old man Hickleman’s death. I realized I could do that if I applied for a job at the plant. So at lunch break, when everyone thought I’d gone off to use the bathroom facilities, I’d obtained a job application on the sly.

  I got out of my seat at the rear of the bus and slowly made my way forward to Gertie who was sitting ten rows ahead of me. As soon as I reached her seat, I rested the palm of my hand against the upper cushion of the forest green seat and leaned in. “Hey, Gertie,” I buzzed in her ear, “tell your Cousin Butch I’m ready to talk with him this evening if he’s available.”

  She tilted her head back. “He should be, Mary. His boss doesn’t want him anywhere near Tioni’s Pizza Parlor until this mess gets cleared up.”

  “Tioni’s? Where’s it located?” I asked, thinking I’d check it out sometime soon.

  “Two blocks from the pickle factory.”

  My stomach churned. “Perfect.”

  ~9~

  “Butch, I’m glad you were able to drop by on such short notice,” I said, resting a hand on the nickel-plated door handle while he carried his beefed up linebacker like frame across the threshold and sauntered into our teeny entryway.

  “Heck ma’am,” he belted out, “I’ve got nothing better to do seeing as how the police have branded me a killer.”

  My ears rang. I hadn’t expected Butch’s voice to match the size of his body. It threw me off kilter. Although it shouldn’t have; he is related to Gertie. “Okay, then let’s get to the crux of the matter and clear your name once and for all.”

  “I’d like that.” Butch removed his brown leather jacket and dangled it over his muscular arm. “Gertie’s told me you’re good at your job. According to her you’ve already helped put a couple criminals behind bars. She wasn’t just blowing hot air, was she?”

  “Nope. I’ve definitely done what she said, but I’m not a PI. You need to know that up front.”

  He gave me a wink. “Look, whatever you want to label yourself is fine with me as long as I don’t end up in the slammer again.”

  “Good. I wanted you to understand where I was coming from before we went any further.” I pointed to his jacket. “Let me take that. I’m afraid there’s no chair in the living room to throw it over.”

  “Sure.”

  He held out the arm with the jacket draped on it. I scooped it up and put it in the closet behind him, and then ushered him into the living room where Aunt Zoe and I had been killing time until he got here.

  When my roommate finally caught a glimpse of the two of us, she scooted off the couch and greeted our visitor like a long lost relative. “Hello, Butch,” she said in her naturally, sugary-sweetened tone, offering a pudgy hand whose nails had been painted a sky-blue to match her lipstick only moments before. “It’s nice to finally meet you. By the way, I’m Zoe, Mary’s aunt.”

  Butch Bailey permitted a smile to creep across his stony square face as he took my aunt’s hand and briefly pumped it. “Her aunt? No way. You can’t be. You look so young.”

  Aunt Zoe’s cheeks glowed. “Oh, you’re too kind.” She dropped her hand to her side and remained frozen in time, except for her thick black eyelashes that continued to wave at the man. “Gertie’s told us so much about you,” she gushed, lifting the hand Butch had just touched and resting it against her neck. “Why, I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

  What’s up with her? The last time I caught auntie batting those thick lashes of hers was this past summer when she met Reed Griffin, her boyfriend, for the first time and charmed the pants off him, and as far as I knew they’re still on good terms.

  Aunt Zoe twisted her upper body slightly, picked up the book she had been reading, and then faced Gertie’s cousin and me again. “I, ah, w
onder if I can ask you a small favor, Butch. I’ve never met a real live author before. Well, Mary started a book this year for teenagers but she didn’t get very far. Anyway, with my lack of experience I’m not sure if this is inappropriate or not, but would you mind signing your book before you leave?”

  Too much info. I gave my aunt an icy stare. I should’ve known better than to tell her she could stay and listen to what Butch had to say. I invited the guy here to chat but not about the whacky book he wrote, Ghosts that Haunt the Hennepin County Slammer. Only the serious issues surrounding Butch are of utmost importance this evening. Who did Butch think was behind his first arrest? And who might be using him for a scapegoat this time? Could it be the same person?

  Butch Bailey, a man in his mid-fifties, peered down at Aunt Zoe from his five foot eleven height and lightly fingered his salt and pepper Norse Skipper goatee that required a trimming within the next couple of days. “Of course, I’d be happy to sign it for you, Zoe. You must’ve gotten a copy from Gertie.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  Hmm. It looks like this gal’s going to have to put a stop to idle chatter otherwise I’m going to miss seeing my favorite mystery shows on PBS. And I simply won’t allow that. Over the past several months, I’ve gleaned an enormous amount of info on sleuthing from viewing programs like Father Brown, Miss Fisher, and the Coroner, but I still need to learn much more. Of course, watching a James Bond movie can be educational too, but being a realist I know there’s no way I can get my hands on the futuristic gadgets 007 is supplied with. Besides, I’m not preparing to join the police force, FBI, or the CIA. I cleared my throat. “Ahem, Butch, why don’t you sit in the La-Z-Boy. It’s not gussied up with layers of fabric and pillows like the couch is.”

  “Thanks. I’d prefer sitting in a seat not as dramatic,” he said with a light chuckle, quickly dropping his roughly 230 pound frame into the beefy chair. “Now this is what I call a chair built for a man, nice and comfy.”