“Don’t worry,” I said, sounding like a teeny grade schooler as I stuffed the last piece of toast in my mouth and washed it down with orange juice, “I’m watching the time like a hawk. All I have left to do is brush my teeth and redden my lips with lipstick.” I stood now and carried the few dishes to the sink to rinse them.
Auntie joined me at the sink, her fancy slippers clacking away as she did so. “You’d better lose these,” she said, tugging on one of my earrings. “I overheard a gal in the laundry room tell her friend she can’t wear jewelry if she wants a job at a fast food place. I bet the same applies for a pickling plant.”
“You’re probably right. I hadn’t given it any thought. The employees I saw working around the machinery wore hairnets.” I set the rinsed dishes on the counter and grabbed a dish towel to dry my hands. “I suppose that’s one of the many things Ms. Sylvester will cover during orientation this morning.” As much as I hated to remove the two-inch long green beaded pierced earrings perfectly chosen to complement Hinkleman’s mandatory work wear, I took them off and tucked them in one of my jean pockets.
“Oh, Mary, I forgot to tell you. Butch called while you were in the shower.”
“What did he want?”
“He thought you should know about a trucker gal who used to cozy up to old man Hickleman when she delivered cucumbers.”
That bit of info didn’t help. Don Hickleman could have a ton of women truckers bringing in cucumbers. I tapped my foot waiting to hear more, but Auntie didn’t spit anything else out which is nothing new. Whenever we have what I consider a significant discussion, I end up going into dentist mode. I pull and pull till I extract every last tooth of hers. “Did Butch happen to give you a name?”
“What? A name? Why, yes, of course. Roseanne... Roseanne. Oh, dear, give me a minute. It’s on the tip of my tongue.” She rubbed her neck as if that would help her remember. “Ah, I have it, Roseanne Harsh.”
I quieted my foot. “Thanks.” I stored the name in my memory bank and started towards the bathroom, but didn’t get far. The insistent ringing of my cell phone detained me.
A quick duck in the bedroom, where I’d left the phone, helped me determine the number displayed wasn’t familiar. Since I rarely received sales’ calls on it, I instantly thought of David, the undercover cop I’d met while working the case at Reed Griffin’s Bar X Ranch. The last time we’d seen or spoken to each other was October, so for all I knew he could be in Alaska.
I plucked the cell phone off the night stand and rested it in the palm of my hand, debating whether to answer or not. If I take it, I could be losing precious drive time. Curiosity eventually won. The caller better make this conversation sweet and short, even if he’s the pope.
I tapped the ACCEPT button. “Hello.”
“Hi, Mary. I hope I didn’t catch you on the road. You know how cops feel about people being on the phone while driving.” The upbeat male voice didn’t belong to David, but to Trevor Fitzwell, a Duluth police officer and a hunk of a guy I’d met this past October when I’d driven to the North Shore to do research for a novel. We didn’t hit it off at first, but eventually we warmed up to each other.
Hearing Trevor on the other end of the line made me pleased I’d taken on Butch’s case. I’d have something more to share with him the next time we managed to get together besides crying the blues over the lack of long term teaching positions in the metropolitan area. “No, actually your timing is perfect. I planned to leave for work in another five minutes. So, what’s going on up your way?”
“Nothing much. It’s pretty quiet. Everyone’s got Christmas shopping on their mind or skiing.”
“I imagine you’re planning on coming this way to visit your family at Christmas?”
He hesitated. “Ah, I’m not sure.”
Hmm? Could he have possibly met someone? There’s one way to find out. “I suppose they haven’t given you your work schedule yet, huh?”
“No, that’s not the reason. I figured since Duke and I are attending K9 drug training classes this week at the Minneapolis Convention Center, I’d visit my folks and you of course. That is if you don’t mind the last minute notice. Are you available for lunch?”
I mind? Is he crazy?
“Sorry. Lunch won’t work today. I’m starting a new job. Can you swing supper tomorrow night?”
“Sure. I’ll call you back this evening and let you know what time to expect me.”
“Perfect.” I clicked the cell phone off and did a shortened version of an Irish jig. David’s out and Trevor is in. What’s one man’s loss is another’s gain so I’ve been told. The cops don’t know about each other and that’s the way I planned to keep it.
Before I slipped out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, I glanced at my wristwatch. “Holy cow. I’ve got two minutes to get down to the garage.” I guess I’d better brush the teeth and skip the lipstick.
The second I finished in the bathroom Aunt Zoe rushed up to me with a slim package and pressed it in my hand. “You’ll need this, Mary. It’s your backup. If there’s one thing I learned in that safety class for women, it’s you don’t go into a hornet’s nest without some sort of gizmo for defense.”
~18~
My feet felt like lead as I trudged down the hallway to catch the elevator. I hated rising early to drive anywhere this time of year. A coal-black sky, except for a smattering of stars, gives you the false impression you’re the only person on the planet. Then POW car lights appear out of nowhere and blind you. At least the sun doesn’t play games. Speaking of the sun, it’s supposed to expose itself later this morning and warm things up to the plus side according to WCCO’s bubbly weather gal’s forecast last night.
Hmm. I wonder if I’ll have a long enough lunch break to even see the sun. If I do, I could eat in the car. I shook my head. “Nope, that won’t do. I need to tune into work gossip and I can’t do that if I’m not surrounded with employees.
The elevator dinged and I stepped on. While I waited for it to deliver me to the Foley’s underground garage where Fiona’s parked, I opened the brown paper package from Aunt Zoe and found a camera. I don’t know how she expects this to protect me. Curious to hear her explanation, I whipped out the cell phone and dialed the landline number for the apartment. “Auntie, I think there’s been a mistake. The package you gave me contained a camera.”
“Of course it did. You have one of the hottest items Damsel in Defense carries for women.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I got off the elevator and walked towards Fiona’s parking space “Well, I hope this black box called Damsel Gotcha didn’t cost too much. Taking a dangerous person’s photo is certainly not going to keep me out of harm’s way.”
A snicker came from my aunt’s end. “You’ve got it all wrong. What I gave you only looks like a camera, Mary. It’s actually a stun gun. Look, I’ve got to go,” she said rather rushed, “I left the water running in the tub and I don’t want it to overflow.”
I pinched the skin at the top of my nose. Things weren’t going so well for me since Gracie ran off. I certainly don’t need a flooded bathroom too. Aunt Zoe better get the tub water flow under control otherwise her stay at the apartment will be terminated before Matt shows his face.
Once I let myself in the car and settled into the driver seat, I turned the radio off, choosing silence for companionship as I commuted to the pickle plant and reflected on the gadget Aunt Zoe surprised me with.
Despite our safety instructor’s amazing sales pitch about the benefits of owning a stun gun, she never had us practice using the stun gun she carried with her, which was okay with me; I never intended to buy one, not as klutzy as I am. Heck, if I didn’t accidentally shock myself, Aunt Zoe surely would.
I had to hide the stun gun somewhere, but where? Right now it’s tucked in my purse, but it doesn’t make sense to leave it there. If I carry my purse in the building, I’ll probably be expected to stash it and the phone in a locker, leaving my valuables vulnerable to
anyone with a knack for figuring out lock combinations.
I tapped my gloved fingers on the steering wheel. Maybe there’s a benefit to having a chunkier body after all. No one will take notice of an extra bulge on one of my hips after it’s covered with a knee-length lab coat. Although, someone may want to investigate what a new hire’s doing with a camera if they catch it poking out of my pocket before I have a chance to slip the coat on, which means I could end up in a pickle real fast and I’m not referring to the kid’s version.
Thirty-five minutes later I pulled into Hickleman’s employee parking lot with the problem of the stun gun resolved, and braced myself for what I suspected to be a long hectic day ahead, possibly even dangerous.
With only five minutes remaining on the clock to report to Sharon Sylvester in the H.R. office, I yanked my purse off the passenger seat without retrieving the stun gun from it first. Luckily, Fiona’s car doors can be temperamental at times, and this was one of those days.
Finding it difficult to fight with the door latch while holding the huge handbag, I tossed the unzipped purse back on the passenger seat. A mixture of items flew out and spilled to the floor-mat, including Aunt Zoe’s present. I ignored everything except for the safety gadget and quickly stuffed it in a jean pocket before tending to the door again.
When I strolled into the lobby entrance of the pickle plant, I found Mandy, the same young gal who helped me last time, sitting at the receptionist desk and informed her I was here for orientation with Sharon Sylvester.
“Do you remember how to get to her office,” she inquired.
I pointed to the wooden stairs off to the left. “I think so. Go up that flight of stairs and head straight back.”
“You got it.” She picked up a plastic badge off her desk and held it out for me. “Welcome to Hickleman Pickle Company, Ms. Malone. Have a great day.”
“Thanks.” I took the badge with my name typed on it, pinned it to my long sleeve navy turtleneck shirt I’d recently purchased to insulate me better against Minnesota’s bitter-cold winters, and headed for the stairs leading to the second floor.
Those who work in Hickleman’s business department must have different hours from the plant. When I reached the open cubicles on the second level, there wasn’t a sole stirring, but then none of them were expecting me. Sharon Sylvester from H.R. had penciled-me in, not them.
As I trudged on past the rows of cubicles to reach Sharon’s enclosed office, I thought perhaps I’d find her waiting by her doorway for me, but that wasn’t the case. All that greeted me was a closed door displaying Sharon’s brass nameplate. So I did what any sane person would do. I balled up my hand and rapped on the door.
“Come in,” the recognizable voice of Ms. Sylvester uttered.
When I entered Sharon’s private office, I found a dark-skinned middle-aged woman seated next to the human resources representative and assumed she was there for orientation too, but soon found I was mistaken.
Sharon smiled. “Good morning, Mary. I hope traffic wasn’t too heavy for you?” She pointed to an empty chair.
I took it as my cue to sit. “Actually, it was pretty calm. I expected it to be a lot worse.”
Sharon Sylvester’s honey brown eyes fell upon the gal next to her. “Anita, this is the woman I was telling you about.”
Anita’s plastic eyewear the shade of eggplant slid down a short distance when her plump face nodded slightly. “Ah?”
Not knowing if I was expected to say anything, I simply said, “Hi.”
“Anita Crane is part of our mentor team,” Sharon explained, resting her covered elbows on the desk and folding her hands. “She’ll be in charge of you for at least a week if not longer.”
The thick brightly-painted purple lips belonging to Anita split so wide apart at the mention of her mentoring duties I thought she might have to pick her lips up off the floor.
I beamed right back at the woman with tightly weaved braids the color of a submarine. I had a feeling she and I would get along just fine. There’s nothing better than working with a happy person. I abhor crabby people.
“Before Anita takes you over to the plant however,” Sharon continued, “I need to cover a few basic rules our employees are expected to follow. We at Hickleman want to ensure that new employees feel comfortable with whatever jobs assigned them.”
After Sharon said what she had to say concerning rules, she handed me a personalized copy of Hickleman’s employee handbook to take home and read and also mentioned how long I had to be at the plant before health insurance kicked in. Then she wound things up. “Anita, will show you where to clock-in and the location of medical supplies. But if you have any questions concerning your job, Mary, please come up and speak to me directly. A coworker doesn’t have the power to change anything.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that,” I said, remaining seated until Anita indicated we should depart.
Two seconds later Anita Crane stood, giving me a fuller picture of the woman who would be training me. Her body definitely carried more meat than mine and she was at least three inches taller, even though we both wore New Balance tennis shoes. “Well, girl, there’s plenty to do before you get on the production floor. So, let’s head downstairs, stash your belongings in a locker, and find you the appropriate items to wear. Once that’s done, we’ll clock you in and get you familiar with the plant.”
~19~
Anita Crane’s crisp white lab coat softly rustled as she hustled me down the lengthy narrow corridor leading to the back of the plant and the time clock. The speed at which the woman walked made me believe she’d rather be packing pickles than having me shadow her. Of course, I could be reading her wrong.
When we reached our destination, Anita found herself short of breath, forcing her first attempts at breaking the long silence, kept in the hallway, to come in waves of tiny gulps of air, intermittently mixed with words. “Sharon... probably told you... about the cucumber deliveries... and the sorting process when you were interviewed.” I nodded. “I thought so.”
She plucked a Bic pen and blank time card from a slot directly below the time clock and handed it to me to sign. “You know you look like the kinda gal who’d give her eye-teeth to catch the action up close. Am I right, girl?”
My stomach tightened. Not expecting those particular words thrown at me on my first day of work, I gave Anita’s question some serious thought while I signed the time card. Hopefully she wasn’t planning to show me how to operate a heavy piece of machinery. “I... ah guess,” I finally replied, shoving the pen back in its slot before giving Anita the signed card so she could demonstrate how to stamp it correctly.
The dark-skinned woman with a southern drawl shook her chunky body slightly. “Good. No one’s keeping track of my production output today since I’m showing you the ropes, and rumor has it one of our truckers arrived a day early with a load of cucumbers from Baja, Mexico. How about checking it out?”
My troublesome stomach settled down. I wasn’t going to be thrown into the lion’s den the first day on the job after all. Watching a trucker drop cucumbers off instead of working sounded like a day at the zoo with kids.
“Sure,” I cheerfully replied. Besides, Sharon’s tour of the plant after my interview never included what goes on outdoors. Probably because she didn’t want to talk about the pickling vats and the whole sticky mess the company found themselves in.
Even though my feet hadn’t appreciated the speed-walking drill Anita had put us through to get to this side of the plant, at least she had the good sense to explain the rush to get where we landed. Something she didn’t have to do. Looking back over the years, most bosses I’ve worked for never had the decency to tell subordinates what was going on and then wondered why things didn’t get done.
After letting Anita know I was okay with her idea, she led me out a side door and we entered the fenced in acreage owned by Hickleman that I quickly dubbed Pickledom. Luckily, there wasn’t a moat filled with water anywhere in sight. The
only liquid out here was the twenty-two thousand pounds of vinegar placed in each of the 70 vat tanks to ferment the cucumbers for six weeks, which I’d heard about when touring the plant with the second graders.
As the freezing air encircled me and nipped here and there, I held back the need to blink. I wanted to see who climbed out of the cab with the lettering Tiny’s Trucking stenciled on it, especially with all the restrictions in place regarding illegal immigrants crossing the border.
My mentor didn’t skip a beat while we waited for the driver to make his appearance. She went right on chattering about work-related stuff. Maybe talking helps her block out how cold it really is, but it wasn’t doing anything for me. “You won’t read this in any company brochure, Mary, but none of the people we buy cucumbers from uses machines to gather their crop.”
I played ignorant. “Really? Why is that?”
“When Don Hickleman’s father started this company up in the early 1900’s, he insisted on handpicked only. According to him, handpicked cucumbers provide a better taste and crunch.”
I glanced up at the truck’s cab. At least five minutes had flown by since we came outside and the darn driver was still perched up in his nice warm enclosure. I don’t blame him for not wanting to leave it. Chilled to the bone, I’d already tucked my hands in my shirt sleeves to keep them warm, but I couldn’t do the same for my frozen feet or head.
I moved closer to Anita thinking the body heat radiating off of her might transfer to me. “He’d better make a move in the next few minutes,” I said, “or my toes are going to fall off.” Keep the blood flowing, Mary. I gently lifted the ball of the right foot up, tapped it back down, and then lifted the left and repeated the procedure.
Apparently Anita felt the same. She rubbed her arms vigorously. “Hang in there, girl. I think I see movement in the cab.”
Death of the Pickle King Page 10