Death of the Pickle King

by Marlene Chabot

  “Who set up the meeting with you, Paul? And why?” That’s the million dollar question. The sounds of shoes smacking the concrete in the hallway outside the walk-in grew louder. It’s got to be the cops.

  Lucky me, I’d freed the pen from the lab coat in the nick of time; Sharon Sylvester stepped in first, wearing a well-fitted black two piece suit and high-heels that looked like they’d been copied directly from a CIA magazine. She was soon followed by two police officers. Anita had returned too, but remained outside the walk-in. Maybe so she could keep an eye out for the expected EMT crew.

  “Mary,” Sharon said, drawing closer to me, “would you please show Officers Lloyd and Henderson where you found Paul Mason’s body?”

  I moved forward about ten paces, stopped, pointed at the thick plastic sheeting hanging in front of the existing shelving unit, and got out of the their way.

  Before they pulled the heavy sheeting aside, Officer Lloyd turned to face me. “Ma’am, don’t go anywhere,” he ordered with a firm tone. “We’ll need to question you and the gal out in the hallway.”

  ~31~

  Anita unzipped her heavy parka and put it alongside her in the booth. “Girl, I’m glad you suggested eating lunch here. I couldn’t have digested anything over there the way the police and everyone else tried squeezing information from us like we were rotten tomatoes. That older cop, Officer Lloyd, tried to con me into pleading guilty with his scare tactics, but I saw right through him. What happened to being innocent until proven guilty anyway? Tell me the truth. Do I look like a killer? Never mind. Don’t answer. I probably do before our morning coffee break.”

  “I didn’t like the way he treated me either, but it’s his job to get at the truth.” I set my can of Sprite aside and plucked a slice of thin crust sausage pizza off the large metal pan delivered to us only seconds before. Heavy steam escaped into the air as I did so, warding me off from tasting it yet. Instead, I held the slice in front of my lips and blew on it for a while.

  “That may be,” Anita said, “but I think he could’ve gone about it differently.” She took a quick sip of her Diet Coke and then dived into our shared pizza. “Well, at least we can take as long as we want for lunch, thanks to Sharon.”

  “I was surprised she gave us the option to take the rest of the day off though, weren’t you?”

  Anita had been gearing up to eat the slice of pizza she’d just picked up but held off long enough to respond to me. “Nope. How often does a person find a dead body?” Noticing the cheese and sausage slowly sliding off the crust, she quickly leaned over her plate to catch it. Unfortunately, the woman’s wide hand caught more of it than the plate.

  I handed her one of the extra napkins I’d taken from the napkin dispenser when we’d first walked in. “But this isn’t the first death at the plant, Anita.”

  She wiped her hand off. “You’re right. But I wasn’t around when they found Don Hickleman.” Anita stared at what was left of the pizza she still held. “You know this pizza sure is mighty tasty. I haven’t had any in a while,” she revealed. “Not since the doctor said I was supposed to watch my girlish figure.”

  I grinned. “I should be too.” I swallowed what remained in my mouth and then went on. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  Anita’s mouth too occupied with chomping, gave her consent with a flick of the hand instead.

  “Did any women on the day shift ever complain to HR about Paul Mason’s overly zealous flirtations?”

  “Not that I know of. Even though he came off awful edgy to the female workforce, I think the new hires realized rather quickly he was more blow than show. Personally, I never figured out what made him tick. He just got under my skin,” she said, and shoveled what remained of her pizza in her mouth.

  I eyed the two slices of pizza still left on the pan and hoped Anita would save one for me. “What motive could there possibly be for someone to knock Paul off then?”

  “Honey, you’re beginning to sound like a crime fighter. If I knew that, I would’ve shared it with the cops.”

  Ah, the heck with it. I couldn’t put off eating a slice of the remaining pizza any longer. I grabbed one and took a couple bites. Then I inquired of Anita how long she’d been at the pickle plant.

  “Oh, my goodness. You would have to ask.” She shut her eyes for a moment. “Going on thirty years already I reckon.”

  “Wow. You were barely out of high school.”

  She grinned. “Not quite. More like a decade.”

  I scarfed up what was left on my plate and immediately began to fidget with the can of Sprite I’d ordered. Anita and I seemed to be comfortable enough with each other after all we’d experienced earlier, but I questioned whether I dared push the envelope further, and ask about Butch, fearing she might become suspicious. After much internal debate, I took a stab at it. “Do you remember a guy by the name of Butch Bailey? Paul Mason was his shift supervisor.”

  Anita’s submarine-colored cornbraids bounced up and down. “Sure. Sure. A nice, quiet fellow. He ended up in the can over the theft of Hickleman pickle recipes. I was so shocked when I’d heard what he’d done. Is he a relative of yours?”

  “No. He’s related to a neighbor of mine.”

  “Ooo? Did she tell you he was arrested for old man Hickleman’s murder?”

  “Yup. He’s out on bail.”

  “Really?” She plopped both hands on the table and wiped them with a napkin. “Hmm. Maybe he snuck into the plant and killed Paul too. I shouldn’t be telling you this, Mary, but for years tension has been building up among the higher ups at the plant. I’ve just never been able to put my finger on it.”

  Could Don Hickleman have found out Paul Mason stole the recipes and when he threatened to throw him in jail, Paul killed him? I shook my head. That theory only works up to a point. What about who killed Paul and why? Was there an accomplice? If so, was that person blackmailing Paul? The pot was stirring but not anywhere near enough to declare what was in it. I just hoped to heck I could prove Butch’s innocence.

  For now Paul Mason would stay in the mix, but there’s still another person I need to check out, Chip O’Leary. Butch mentioned Chip liked making other’s the butt of his jokes. “Anita, could you introduce me to the vat manager when we go back to the plant? I think he’s the only one I haven’t met.”

  “That’s a good idea. There’s no rush to get back to our work. Besides, Chip rarely comes inside the plant. This way if you ever do run into him you’ll know he’s an employee not one of our suppliers.”

  ~32~

  The sun came out long enough during lunch to warm the temperature to ten above, making our visit to the outdoor vats at the pickle plant bearable. “Hey, Chip, you got a minute?” Anita inquired as she whipped her hairnet off and rubbed her hands vigorously. “I’ve got a new employee I’d like you to meet.”

  Chip and another guy were busy tending to the vats with long handled rakes. “Just a sec,” he hollered.

  Anita shifted her body a smidgen, giving her a view of the street while we waited. “Look at those people cruising by, Mary.” She smacked her lips “They’ve no idea it takes six hundred bushels of cucumbers to fill one of those crazy vats.”

  “Nope. And when you say it in terms of pounds, holey smoley, fifty thousand is really hard to wrap one’s head around.”

  “You got that right.” Anita replied, continuing to keep one eye on Chip. “That man better come down here soon my fingers are getting numb.”

  “What’s he doing up there, anyway?” I asked, even though Paul explained the procedures out here during the school tour.

  “Stirring the salt brine to keep the cucumbers from surfacing.”

  I stared at the vats for a few seconds and tried to picture someone knocking Don Hickleman, a hundred and ninety-five pound man, into one of them and then holding him under with the long handled rake until his body gave out. A woman or man could’ve easily done it.

  I shifted my gaze from the vats to Anita. “Yo
u’d think OSHA would require the vats to be covered,” I said, wanting to hear Anita’s explanation versus the one Paul gave.

  Anita’s cornrow braids bounced back and forth. “Don’t start fretting about occupational safety out here, girl. These vats have to be left open. The sun’s ultraviolet and infrared rays stop yeast and mold from growing on the surface.”

  “Oh? Sharon must’ve forgotten to pass that on to me.” I rubbed my arms and turned slightly to see if Chip O’Leary was ready to leave the vat platform yet. He was.

  Chip’s open jacket flapped in the wind as his short, stocky fortyish body traipsed down the steps two at a time. When he reached the ground, he parked his hands on his hips and focused on Anita. “What’s this about a new employee?” Then his cold eyes shifted to me. The eyes were two different colors, one blue the other brown, a rarity known as complete heterochromia. “Say,” he said, “don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  “I doubt it.” Crap. He must remember me from the Washington School tour. Or perhaps he saw my photo in the paper this summer when I solved the crimes at the Bar X Ranch. “I don’t live in the area.” I continued. “Maybe you’ve run into one of my many look-a likes over the years. I’ve been told they’re plenty of them out there.”

  “That could be.” He pinched one end of his stiff black handlebar mustache that reached up to his cheeks. “So you must be the new employee?”

  “Yup.”

  “Chip, this is Mary Malone. She started here three days ago.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He slipped his hands in the pockets of his ill-fitted down jacket. “Where have they got her working, in the office?”

  Anita grimaced. “No. I’m training her in on the floor. This afternoon I’m introducing her to the brine section.”

  “Ah?”

  I found it surprising that neither Anita nor Chip mentioned Paul Mason’s body being found in the walk-in earlier. I understood Anita’s reluctance to bring it up again, but why wouldn’t Chip inquire about the carnival like atmosphere of cop cars, ambulance, and firetruck. Didn’t he care what went on inside the plant? Or did he have something to do with Paul’s death?

  Chip’s mouth cracked open for a split-second like he was about to add more to the conversation, but then the employee up by the vats signaled he needed him. “Sorry, ladies, but work requires my attention. Maybe I’ll have more time to chat next time.”

  Anita rubbed her thick lips. “Well, that went down better than I expected,” she said as we tramped through the remaining snow in the lot and headed inside to the locker room to rid ourselves of our coats and purses. “One never knows what Chip’s going to spit out. He can be downright blunt at times.”

  “I understand Don Hickleman was like that too.”

  “Uh-huh, but I’d rather not speak of the dead at the moment.” She tore off her parka that had seen better days and tossed it in her locker. “Come on, Mary, the brine section waits for no one.”

  “TAKE A GOOD LOOK AT the example on the wall behind you,” Anita instructed. “It shows what the jar of sliced cucumbers should look like after we’ve patted down the cucumbers.”

  I marched over to the large photo on the wall and stared at it for a few seconds.

  “Got it stuck in your head, girl?”

  I nodded. If this ex-teacher couldn’t remember one little picture, I’d be in deep do doo.

  Anita swung her arm out. “Good. Move up to the conveyor belt so you can see what’s actually happening.” She pointed to the left of us. “That gal’s job at the very end is to fill the jars of sliced cucumbers with brine. When her jars come your way you lightly tap down on the slices, making room for a bit more brine. After you’re done, the guy at the opposite end adds more brine to the filled jars and weighs them. Okay. I’m going to step back and let you get to it. Too many hands only add more confusion in this section like it does in the kitchen.”

  I wouldn’t know about that. Aunt Zoe’s hands create enough confusion in our kitchen.

  ~33~

  As soon as I got home, I kicked off the Sorel snow boots and headed straight for the La-Z-Boy. After the wild day I had at work, I didn’t plan to lift as much as a pinky finger unless Aunt Zoe did something nutty like setting the apartment on fire. Which, thankfully, as far as my nose could tell she hadn’t.

  “Oh, Mary? I didn’t hear you come in,” Aunt Zoe said as she ambled into the living room, scooped up the TV’s remote control from the coffee table, and selected a station. An ad for Tums popped up on the screen.

  “Were you preparing supper?”

  She sat on the couch and continued to hold the remote. “No. I hadn’t realized it was that late. I dozed off about an hour ago,” she explained. “When I awoke, I had so much energy I decided to rearrange the kitchen cupboards. We’ll be moving out soon you know.”

  No kidding. “How did it go? Were you able to remember where Matt kept everything before we moved our stuff in?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid my memory can be a bit stale at times.”

  Stale? I hate to tell her but at her age refreshing it ain’t going to help. If she’d only tackled the living room instead and gotten rid of the Vegas look before Matt shows up. I can’t imagine why she’s stalling.

  I faked a smile. “Don’t worry. Matt’s been gone six months. He won’t notice if his dishes aren’t exactly where they used to be. So, did anything interesting happen around here today?”

  The question seemed to confuse my aunt, her brows lifted considerably. “Like what for instance?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I thought maybe you received a call about Gracie or,” I mumbled, “you heard somebody was murdered?”

  She leaned forward on the couch and threw her meticulously manicured hands in the air. “What? Someone got murdered in our building. I never heard any sirens.I must’ve been sleeping when the cops showed up. What floor did it happen on? Did the cops mark off the apartment door with yellow tape or did they decorate the whole hallway?”

  Aunt Zoe stared blankly at the TV and released a heavy sigh. “The poor residents on that floor must be scared out of their wits. How are they ever going to sleep tonight, Mary?” she asked as she rested her back against the couch again.

  “Don’t fret about them,” I said with a firm tone. If I didn’t set my aunt straight, she’d worry herself to death and then my father would never speak to me again. “Auntie, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Yes?”

  “I—”A loud knock at the door stopped me cold. I tensed up. “When Trevor left this morning did he mention coming back here this evening?”

  “No. All he said when he left was he had a great time and looked forward to seeing us again soon.”

  Crap. “Soon could’ve meant tonight. I look a fright. What am I going to do? There’s no time to throw makeup on or fluff my hair.”

  “I’ll get the door, Mary. If its Trevor, I can hold him off till you make yourself presentable.”

  I took a deep breath and released it. “That’s all right. I’ll go. Whoever is there will have to accept me the way I am.” Hopefully I won’t find a man on the other side. On the way to the door, I ran my fingers through my hair. It couldn’t hurt.

  Margaret Grimshaw’s olive-green eyes lit up when I opened the door. “Good evening, Mary. I hope you don’t mind that we stopped by without calling first. I told Gertie you’re probably worn out after such a long day at the pickle plant and didn’t feel like visitors, but she insisted.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Of course she doesn’t mind,” Gertie said as she pushed her way past me and immediately plopped her abundant body on the couch next to Aunt Zoe’s, not giving any consideration to the woman in her nineties who came with her.

  Poor Margaret. Missing her chance to have a seat on the couch meant the petite woman would be swallowed up by Matt’s La-Z-Boy. The only other choice though would’ve been a kitchen chair and I figured she’d prefer something cushiony over hard as a rock. I on
the other hand had a well-padded butt and could put up with a solid wood chair and went to fetch one for myself.

  “What brings you two here,” I asked, after returning with the heavy chair and setting it near Margaret. “Are we having some sort of meeting?”

  “No, dear,” Margaret replied. “Gertie came by and asked if I’d heard anything new concerning your undercover work at the plant.”

  Gertie’s newly dyed hair the color of plum bounced with enthusiasm. “Yes, and since Margaret said she hadn’t spoken to you recently, I suggested we catch you when you got home from work. So, here we are.” The huge grin on Gertie’s face nearly exploded.

  Aunt Zoe who usually wants to know everything I’m doing to help Butch, totally ignored us. “I don’t believe it. The local news is cutting into the last half hour of Ellen’s show,” she said in disgust. “It better be something serious or I’m going to go down to that station and give them a piece of my mind.”

  Not if I don’t drive her. “Aunt Zoe, turn the volume up,” I ordered. “I’m sure we’d all like to know what the ‘Special Report’ is about.”

  She quickly obliged.

  “Good evening. WCCO has just learned the name of the victim found murdered today in St. Michael. The body of Paul Mason, first shift supervisor at Hickleman Pickle Plant was found shortly before noon. At this time the police have no suspect in custody. When asked if Mason’s death could be related to that of Don Hickleman’s, the police chief said ‘no comment.’ Stay tuned. More news is sure to follow on our 10 o’clock newscast.”

  Aunt Zoe didn’t wait for the Ellen show to return. She got up and turned the TV off by hand. “A murder at the plant? Is that what you were hinting at, Mary?” I nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me straight out? You didn’t witness the murder, did you?”