Death of the Pickle King

by Marlene Chabot

  Worried Aunt Zoe may have overheard us talking in the corridor; I scurried into Margaret’s apartment and shut the door behind me. “Sure, I’ve got nothing earth shattering to do today except watch a piece of meat thaw.” I bent down, picked up one of the two bags on the floor, and then followed Margaret into her immaculate kitchen where everything has an assigned spot, including the salt and pepper shakers stored on the left-hand side of the upper part of the stove.

  As soon as I set the bag down on the table, I offered to help put the groceries away, but Margaret refused my assistance. So I stood by the kitchen sink and silently watched the precision and orderliness she used emptying the first bag containing frozen cans of juice and meat into the fridge’s freezer compartment.

  Impatient to tell her what I’d done, I finally disturbed the silence in the room. “Guess what? I applied for a job today.”

  My announcement threw the ninety-year-old woman for a loop. She forgot about the open freezer and clamped her hand over her mouth. “What are you talking about? The other day you said you had too many logs in the fire already.”

  “I do. But this one will be short-lived, a week at the most.” I pulled out a chair and sat at the square butcher block table butted up against the far corner of the 12’x 12’ room.

  “I suspect this has to do with Butch,” she said, finally closing the freezer door.

  “Give the little lady a prize,” I teased, sounding like a carny barker.

  Margaret turned a burner on to heat up an old silver teakettle in which one could still see their reflection if they wanted, and then went back to her task of emptying the other grocery bag. “I don’t know how anyone can possibly discover who killed Mr. Hickleman in a week’s time. That’s an ambitious task even for you.”

  When the tea kettle finally whistled, Margaret moved over to the stove, poured the hot water into two coffee mugs, dropped a teabag in each, and brought the mugs to the table. “I think you’ve bit off more than you can chew this time, dear,” she said as she sat down with me. “You won’t even have me or Zoe for backup.”

  I picked up a steaming mug of tea, took a couple sips, and set the mug back on the table. “That’s what worries me the most, but I don’t have any choice. I can’t have Matt find out I’m involved in another case.”

  “Tell me about this job. How exactly does it help Butch?”

  “The position is at the pickle plant.” I took another sip of tea, hoping Margaret would realize before too long she hadn’t offered a sweet to go with it; I’d already burnt off the extra calories I gained from the donuts and my stomach was begging for more. But nothing was said, which was okay. A grown woman like me should know better than to take Margaret’s baked goods for granted. It’s not like she’s my grandmother.

  Margaret set her teacup down in front of her and folded her hands. “Ah, you’re going undercover. Well, a person can certainly find out a lot working in an office setting with all those file cabinets sitting around and people coming and going all day long.”

  “No doubt about it. The problem is Hickleman’s administration department doesn’t have any openings.”

  “What do you expect to do then?” Margaret unclasped her hands, pressed them into the table, and tapped her arthritic fingers. “Oh, my! Don’t tell me you applied for a position on the production line? My dear, you won’t last a day.”

  ~12~

  Day 5

  Torrential rain turned to snow late Thursday night and dropped two feet of powdery white stuff on most of Minnesota, forcing schools at every level to be cancelled, including Washington Elementary where I sub. At least this November storm was nowhere near the Armistice Day blizzard of 1940 old-timers in these parts can’t stop talking about. The drastic daytime weather change that November caused forty-nine deaths.

  Thankfully, the only thing our winter wonderland caused last night was an excuse for snow lovers everywhere to call in sick on a Friday and take full advantage of the first good snowfall.

  Even if I had a job to call in sick to today, this gal wouldn’t be joining in the merriment. If you’re thinking it’s because Mary Colleen Malone’s an old fuddy-duddy you’re way off target. I’m simply a klutz. Why, I can’t even line dance without falling flat on my fanny. But just because I’m not riding a ski lift at Wild Mountain or sliding down a hill at Como Park doesn’t mean I can’t have a fun-filled day like everyone else. Except, I don’t foresee being locked up in the apartment with Aunt Zoe for the next twenty-four hours giving me any pleasure.

  As I approached the kitchen still in a state of grogginess wearing my usual winter bed attire of baggy flannel bottoms and an outstretched extra-large long sleeve knit top to fix breakfast, my aunt’s cheery voice called out to me. “Mary, did you see how much snow we got?”

  Not ready to get into any type of discussion yet, including weather, I simply jiggled my head like a bobble doll.

  She tightened the belt on her floor length butterfly print satin kimono. “I can’t remember when I’ve seen streets clogged that bad.”

  She wouldn’t. Aunt Zoe and her rich husband left us poor slobs behind to take winter trips to Jamaica, Bermuda, Grand Cayman, and other hotspots. “As much as I’d like to live in a house,” I said, “when winter arrives I’m quite content to be an apartment dweller, not a homeowner.”

  The comment regarding homeownership drew a blank stare from Aunt Zoe. “Why would you say that?”

  A loud yawn escaped my lips. “I don’t have to break my back shoveling all that snow. It’s hard work.” I shuffled my animal knitted slippered feet past my aunt, who was standing by the coffee pot waiting for it to brew, and made my way over to the cupboards to get a box of Cheerios, a cereal bowl, spoon, and juice glass.

  The second the coffee machine let out a loud beep Aunt Zoe lifted the coffee pot off its stand, poured steaming java into the mug she won at St. Anne’s Church festival in Buffalo this summer, and then placed the pot back where she found it. “Oh, Mary, I forgot to tell you I made French toast earlier this morning if you’d prefer that over cereal. The leftovers are in the fridge.” Plucking up her mug now and a folded copy of yesterday’s Star Tribune newspaper, she trotted over to the table and emptied her hands.

  When I pulled out the milk and juice, I looked at the uncovered pile of almost black French toast sitting on a saucer, the perfect meal to kill someone with. A couple swallows and the intended victim would choke to death. I made the right choice. You can’t go wrong with a bowl of Cheerios.

  I carried the glass of orange juice and bowl of cereal to the table and sat. “Any plans for the day?” I asked, hoping my aunt might want to visit someone in the building, “Other than reading that is,” I sneakily added.

  My aunt tapped her chin. “I hadn’t really thought about it. According to the radio the roads aren’t going to be cleared for several hours.”

  I wrapped my hand around the juice glass. “Well, perhaps we should think about changing out the living room since we can’t hunt for Gracie.” Hint. Hint. “Matt will be home before you know it.”

  Aunt Zoe set the paper down. “What sort of style might appeal to him? I’ve been thinking about doing something totally manly for his homecoming gift.”

  I almost crushed the glass in my hand. Lord help me!

  A loud knock at the door stopped me from exploding. Wow. The Man Upstairs works mighty fast. Hoping he’d sent Margaret to rescue me, I jumped out of my seat and made a quick turn in the direction of the door, almost tripping over the leg of Aunt Zoe’s chair as I did so.

  “Rod, what are you doing here?” The man continues to pop up whenever he feels like it. If I understood technology, I’d invent a radar system that wards off unwanted visitors, including Rod Thompson.

  He threw up his hands. “Is that anyway to greet a neighbor? I thought you and I were on better terms than Matt and me.”

  Before I could ask him why he didn’t call first, Aunt Zoe shouted, “Tell Rod to come in.”

  Great. No
w I’ve got two people to contend with.

  As I backed away from the door, it dawned on me I must look a fright. “Rod, why don’t you head to the kitchen,” I suggested. “I’ll be there in a second.”

  “Okay.”

  I scrambled down the hall to the bedroom, threw on an outdated shorty blue terrycloth robe and ran my hand through my hair. Then I dashed back to the kitchen and joined them at the table. “So, Rod, what brings you here?”

  The blond whose genealogy extends back to the homeland of the Vikings had already claimed a cup of coffee for himself. “I figured since there isn’t much for any of us to do around town I’d come over and ask if you gals would like to maybe play a friendly game of cards or Monopoly. I’ve got the Twin Cities version.”

  I didn’t jump in with a reply. Hanging out with Rod wasn’t considered fun either. Instead I said, “I’m surprised you aren’t out snowmobiling. Matt told me how much you enjoy buzzing around with your buddies.”

  Rod glanced down at his coffee. “You can’t go snowmobiling if the equipment is stored three hours from here and the roads are closed.”

  “That’s for sure,” Aunt Zoe said, as she picked up the newspaper and paged through it. “When were you thinking of getting together, after lunch?” Obviously, she was ready to be entertained with or without me.

  “Nah, I was thinking more like ten. You can spend a couple days playing the game you know.”

  I glanced at the hands of the clock mounted on the wall above the kitchen cupboards. They pointed to nine and twelve. There goes any chance of me having fun today. Unless... “Hey, Rod, why don’t you ask Margaret if she’d like to play? The game would be more challenging with four players.”

  “Sure. I haven’t sat down with her in a long time.”

  Aunt Zoe dropped the newspaper. “Mary, you’ve got to see this.”

  I shoved my chair out and leaned across the table. “What is it? Did someone post a message about finding Gracie?”

  Auntie didn’t reply. She merely tapped her plum painted nails on a picture of a male figure. He looked like the spitting image of Don Vito Corleone, the character Marlon Brando played in the movie Godfather. The headline above the photo said: Who Killed the Pickle King?

  “What’s got you so riled up, Zoe?” Rod quizzed. “Did you know Mr. Hickleman personally?”

  I pursed my lips together hoping that just once my aunt wouldn’t let the skunk out of the hole.

  Aunt Zoe didn’t catch my facial expression. How could she? Her grayish-blue eyes remained glued on Rod’s sapphire ones. “Ah, no, I never met the man. But Mary’s planning to go undercover at his pickle factory.”

  Rod shot out of his chair. “Are you crazy? I thought you weren’t taking on cases anymore. You’re a teacher. Not a private investigator.”

  “It’s the last case I’m ever taking.” I raised my hand. “I swear. Honest. If Matt found out what I’ve been up to, he’d wring my neck.”

  “I don’t blame him. If you were my sister, I’d do the same.”

  I went on the defensive. “Thanks a lot. For your information my taking this case is all Gertie Nash’s fault.”

  “Sure, blame it on someone else,” the FBI computer geek said, situating himself on the seat of his chair once more.

  The dirty look I gave him could’ve drilled a hole through his skull. “It is too Gertie’s fault. Ever since I moved in here she’s been bugging me to help prove her Cousin Butch is innocent of a crime he went to jail for.”

  “And,” Aunt Zoe broke in, “Mary continued refusing to help up until recently.”

  “What pray tell occurred to change her mind?” he quizzed in what sounded like a non-judgmental tone, but I couldn’t be sure.

  Aunt Zoe reflected for a second. “I believe it was when Gertie showed up at our door, pale as a ghost, all shook-up about poor Butch having been accused of murdering Don Hickleman.”

  I vehemently denied her statement. “That’s not true. After Gertie explained Butch’s situation, I simply volunteered to speak with him. Nothing more.”

  “You’re right, Mary,” Aunt Zoe replied, resting a hand against her thick short neck. “I got a little confused. She didn’t actually make her decision to help Butch until she met him face to face the other evening.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Rod brushed a thick lock of blond hair off his forehead, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms. “You met a criminal in your apartment? What were you thinking? Even a PI doesn’t do that. You’re such a sap. Can’t you see you’re not meant to solve cases? You lack special training. For all you know this Butch guy filled your head with a bunch of nonsense.”

  Aunt Zoe waved her hand in front of Rod’s perfectly straight nose. “Mary can’t help it if she has a heart of gold. Besides, I begged her to help Butch too.”

  Rod rested his lanky arms on the table. “Oh, so, that makes everything A-Okay. Well, don’t expect any help from me when you’re in dire straits.”

  “Don’t worry,” I snapped, “I wouldn’t think of getting your lily white hands dirty.”

  “That’s enough you two,” Aunt Zoe demanded. “Save your aggression for the game of Monopoly.”

  “What? We’re still playing?” Rod and I asked in disbelief.

  ~13~

  After Aunt Zoe explained the tiff between Rod Thompson and me, Margaret recommended we play Monopoly on neutral ground, namely her dining room table. I had no qualms about her suggestion and I was certain Rod didn’t either. As a matter of fact, I don’t know any single person who would pass up a chance to spend time in the home of someone who is known to always have an ample supply of meals, baked goods, and snacks sitting around, simple reminders of when one lived under their parents’ roof.

  Aunt Zoe had just completed her second play on the board when Rod made a tiny request of her. “Could you please hand me the bowl of shelled peanuts?”

  She thrust her open palm under his nose, wiggled her fingers, and smiled. “It would be my pleasure, as soon as you pay me two hundred dollars. I just passed GO again in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I shouldn’t have volunteered to be banker,” he complained as he dug through the play money sitting in the game’s box lid to retrieve the fake bills owed Aunt Zoe, “Everyone is keeping me so busy I can’t even squeeze a snack in.”

  Margaret consoled him. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ve got a huge pan of lasagna warming in the oven. It should be ready in half an hour.”

  “I suppose I can manage till then,” he grumbled, “if I don’t run out of money.”

  “A banker running out of money, what a silly notion coming from an FBI agent,” I snidely cracked. “As far as I know that hasn’t happened since the Great Depression.”

  He ignored my comment, a first for him.

  “I’m a terrible hostess,” Margaret declared. “I haven’t thanked Rod for bringing peanuts or Mary for the very tasty Cheez-its crackers I can’t stop nibbling on.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying them. I wanted to bring something kind of healthy and easy to munch on and they fit the bill.”

  With Aunt Zoe’s turn completed, Margaret was up next, but trying to get a good grip on dice with arthritic fingers was proving to be a challenge. The more she tried to get a handle on the slippery dice the further away they slid from her.

  Sensing the elderly woman didn’t want pity from us or help for that matter, I shoved the dice near her hands for a fourth time.

  This round Margaret put forth greater effort, got the dice, and was rewarded with doubles when she finally tossed them. “Hot dog! I may be able to purchase another piece of property.”

  “Darn. No fair, Margaret,” I squawked. “That’s what I needed. I’m never going to get out of this miserable jail.”

  “At least you can’t land in the cemetery when you’re sitting in jail,” Rod quietly slid in.

  The guy was trying to get my goat and I wasn’t going to let him. He did enough collateral damage earlier in our apar
tment.

  “I didn’t know there was a cemetery in Monopoly,” Aunt Zoe spouted.

  “There isn’t,” Margaret said, moving her iron token forward twelve spaces. “Rod was being witty.” After she halted movement of the token and set it on its new location, she adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and silently read the property she’d landed on. “Does anyone own the Ordway? If not, I’d like to buy it.”

  No one claimed ownership of the property and Margaret happily parted with one hundred and forty dollars of fake money to receive her newly acquired land. If only things were that cheap, in real life. These days’ college students pay more than a hundred dollars for one measly book some professor states is required reading material for his class.

  I eyed all the real estate cards Margaret had collected so far. “Boy, lady, you’re sure scarfing up the property. The way you’re going at it you must’ve owned a real estate company in your past life.”

  Margaret giggled. “I’m not telling.” She handed me the dice and then rose from the chair she’d been sitting in. “I’d better check the lasagna. Good luck, Mary. Perhaps you’ll get more property too.”

  “One can only hope.” I took the dice from her and encased them tightly between both hands, planning to rattle them a bit before tossing them, but I didn’t get to follow through. My cell phone rang. “Sorry.” I dug the phone out of my pocket. “I think I should take this call. It could be about Gracie,”

  “Go ahead,” Rod said. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  “Okay. Don’t anyone take my turn for me,” I warned. Then I rushed to Margaret’s kitchen and clicked the ACCEPT button. “Hello.”

  “Is this Mary Malone?” a thin, reedy voice inquired.

  As soon as the caller asked for me by name, I knew this wasn’t going to be about Gracie. I never included a name on the flyer, only a phone number. I hesitated a moment. For all I knew the person on the other end could be an annoying sales person. I’d take my chances anyway. It wasn’t like the caller was taking me away from a million dollar business deal after all. “Yes, this is she.”