“Well, no, but....”
“I hope you had your stun gun on you.”
I rolled my eyes.
“What’s this about a stun gun?” Gertie asked. “I’ve been thinking about getting one.”
“Ladies, let’s forget the stun gun,” Margaret said in her soft, hypnotizing voice. “I want to find out what Mary knows about Mr. Mason’s death. Where did they find his body? Were there any witnesses?”
I turned slightly to face Margaret. “I don’t know anything about witnesses,” and then I lifted one of the hands that had been resting on my lap and stroked my forehead several times. All this talk of death this evening made me feel light-headed.
Obviously, the reality of finding Paul Mason’s body earlier was finally taking its toll on me. An 1800’s quote by French novelist Eugene Sue’s came to mind. It was used in the Father Brown series last week, so apropos to this crime. Without realizing it, I repeated it aloud. ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’
Margaret stretched her arm out and grasped my shoulder. “Dear, are you all right? You look paler than usual, as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
I rubbed my arms. “I haven’t seen a ghost just Paul Mason served up cold.”
“What do you mean?” Gertie spouted. “How the devil could a man have been served up cold? Was he found outdoors like Don Hickleman?”
“No. I discovered him on a shelf in the cold storage walk-in when I went to collect supplies. It was so surreal. One minute the man’s alive and requesting that I speak with him about God knows what and a few hours later he’s dead.”
I folded my arms and tucked them under my breast. “I keep thinking if I’d arrived five minutes earlier somebody would’ve found my body stowed on the shelf along with Paul’s.”
Margaret let go of my shoulder. “It sounds like one of the employees is worried their secret is going to surface. Who suggested you go to the walk-in?”
“The woman who is training me in, Anita Crane.”
“Hmm?” Margaret tapped her thin lips, but didn’t say anything further.
Gertie shook her head. “I don’t know, Mary. Maybe I shouldn’t have begged you to take on this case. It’s getting way out of hand. Cousin Butch would understand if you threw in the towel. I’ll call him and soften the blow if you want.”
Aunt Zoe chimed in. “You don’t know my niece very well, Gertie. She doesn’t give up that easily. Once she’s got her hooks in something, watch out. She’s like a mother tiger.” Dad’s sister formed her fingers like claws. “Mary will shred her foe up and spit him out like she did with a neighbor boy when he told her she’d never be able to do a pop a wheelie on her bike.”
“You remember that?” I asked.
Aunt Zoe laughed. “Of course I do, Mary. Not much got past me when you were a tyke. I recall the nickname your friends had chosen for you too, Kitten. I never told you, but I had the lion tattoo put on my arm just to remind me of you.”
Whoa. She doesn’t realize it but her light-hearted and touching remarks just restored my state of mind. Usually, it’s Gracie who helps me feel better.
Gertie tilted her head in my direction. “I bet when the cops showed up at the plant they dragged you over the coals, didn’t they?”
“Yup. They treated the woman training me in and myself like they do any other suspects. Luckily, we were questioned in separate rooms. The minute I told the cop interviewing me that Matt’s friend, Sgt. Murchinak at the downtown sub-station, would be more than happy to vouch for me if he wanted to dig deeper into my background, he was thrown off balance and let me go.”
“Mary, dear, I’m not trying to be morbid,” Margaret said, “but would you be so kind as to describe exactly what you saw when you discovered the deceased in the walk-in.”
~34~
Day 12
Anita Crane caught sight of me strolling into the locker room and immediately got in my face. “Girl, I don’t know whatya did, but Sharon Sylvester’s been asking for you. She said the second you clock-in you’re to report to her.”
Oh, oh. Who let the cat out of the bag? The only reason Sharon would want to see me is if the cop who interrogated me yesterday shared my personal data he acquired from Sgt. Murchinak. If that’s the case, there’d be no more sleuthing for me in pickledom. Sharon Sylvester wielded all the power here. With the stroke of a pickle pen, she could cut me off at the knees and toss me out on the street all because this gal lied on the application about her so-called work experience.
It took me all of ten minutes to stash my personal stuff, toss on work apparel, and clock-in before my size nine tennis shoes tackled the well-tread stairs leading to H.R. on the second floor.
When I reached Sharon’s office, I found the door ajar and poked my head in to make sure she was there. She was. “Anita said you wanted to see me.”
“Yes,” the H.R. administrator replied, signaling me to come in with her flimsy hand.
Surprise, surprise. The woman’s complexion hadn’t been transformed overnight. Someone needs to inform her that she desperately requires a serious makeup job especially during the winter months; her paler than pale heart-shaped face today did nothing for her honey brown eyes or the snug, dark-chocolate two piece suit she wore. Although, I did note her exposed auburn roots had been taken care of since I last saw her. Of course, most women do tend to fuss with their hair more than makeup these days, including me.
“Have a seat, Miss Malone,” Sharon said in her thin, reedy voice.
After I selected the straight-back leather chair closest to Sharon Sylvester’s desk, she swiveled her squeaky office chair halfway around to face the black metal credenza behind her on which sat an antiquated coffeemaker and a fresh package of Styrofoam cups. “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
If her intention was to call me up here to give me the axe, she was certainly taking the gentle route to announce it. I crossed my legs and tried to display calmness. “Ah, no thank you.”
After Sharon poured a generous cup of coffee for one, she slowly swiveled her chair back around being careful not to spill a drop of java on herself. “I’m sorry to call you up here, Miss Malone, considering the circumstances, but I feel a serious issue regarding yourself needs to be addressed.” She took a couple sips of the hot liquid and then set the cup on her rickety desk. I really regret...”
Here it comes
“Sharon, are you busy?” A high-pitched brash female voice asked. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were by yourself.”
Even though there was no mistaking the speaker, I kept my back to the door and waited for the conversation to playout.
Sharon tilted her head up and glanced at the person in the doorway. “Oh, Roseanne, I thought you weren’t bringing a delivery till tomorrow. I’ll be free in about ten minutes. Can you come back then?”
“Sure, I’m in no rush.”
Sharon moved her coffee cup over a few inches and folded her hands. “Sorry about the interruption. What I wanted to say was I regret that you were put through such an ordeal yesterday. No, one should have to go through that. Anita Crane told me how well you’re catching on having been here only three days. And your handling of two major incidents here during that time has certainly impressed me. Not everyone would’ve acted as calmly as you did with Jose’s accident or Paul’s death.”
She opened her thin hands and flattened them on the desk. “As the head of H.R., I’m authorized to bump up a person’s pay scale whenever I see fit. And I’ve decided you definitely deserve one after all you’ve been through. So I’ve added a quarter more to your hourly wages. Is that all right with you?”
Hmm? Sharon must think I’m pretty gullible if she’s offering me a raise. What’s in it for her? Is she afraid I might sell my story to the newspaper? I bubbled over with enthusiasm. “Sure. Of course it is. Extra money is always nice especially with Christmas just around the bend.” Figuring that was all she wanted to hear from my lips, I prepared to leave.
“Please don’t go. I’
m not through yet.”
“Oh, sorry.”
Sharon stretched her hands across the wide desk. “I know the police questioned you yesterday, Miss Malone, but after having time away from the plant, are you still positive you didn’t see anyone near the walk-in when you entered it?”
I nodded. “I’m positive.”
“All right then. That’s all I wanted to know. You may go back to work.”
EVEN THOUGH ANITA NEVER mentioned where we’d be working today, I assumed I’d be expected to help in the brine area for at least two days since I worked that many in the sliced pickle section before moving on, so after I left Sharon Sylvester’s office that’s where I headed.
My mentor’s plump face broke out in a smile similar to a chimpanzee’s the moment she laid eyes on me. “Mary, am I glad to see you. I was afraid Sharon thought you’d killed Paul and gave you the old heave ho. Then I got to thinking if she thinks Mary’s guilty, what’s to stop her from canning me too since we were both in the walk-in near the time of Paul’s death.”
I stepped up to the conveyor belt and began to pat the pickles down in the open jars “Nah, I’m still here. Sharon was just concerned about how I was doing since discovering Paul’s body,” I lied. “Hey, was your trucker friend supposed to be delivering cucumbers today?”
Anita lifted her broad shoulders. “You mean Roseanne? I don’t know. Why?”
“I thought one of the women upstairs mentioned she was in the building.”
“Hmm? I wonder if anyone has told her about Paul yet.” Anita muttered. “Probably not. I guess I’d better be the bearer of bad news.”
~35~
Anita yanked me away from the conveyor belt for a second. “If anyone asks, I’ve gone over to the capping and pasteurization area for a few minutes.” Then she zipped out of our section.
I didn’t believe her story. Knowing Anita she was determined to find Roseanne Harsh and the most logical place for her to look would be the breakroom. But she won’t find her there. Any second now the trucker should be coming down the backstairs near the first floor bathrooms and wouldn’t you know it my bladder is conveniently screaming for attention. So I headed in that direction.
Thanks to a tennis shoe coming untied at the perfect moment, I saw Chip O’Leary hustle Roseanne off the steps to a corner safe from prying eyes. Wondering what they could be up to, I snuck up as close as I dared, within the boundaries of the women’s bathroom, and eavesdropped on their conversation.
“What gives, Roseanne? I thought we had a pact.”
“Let go of me, Chip, or I’ll scream.”
“Go ahead. I dare you.”
Roseanne didn’t say anything.
“That’s what I thought. You don’t dare cause a ruckus.” He snapped his fingers. “I’d blow the whistle on you.”
Ooo. This gets more intriguing as it goes along.
“For what? Having had an affair with the owner of the company?” she asked.
“Don’t forget Paul. The police would be mighty interested in hearing about your romances with the men around here.”
“You’re just jealous I never gave you a second look. At least the old man got one thing right before he died, Chip.”
“What’s that?”
Roseanne leaned closer to Chip’s pocked square-shaped face before blowing off more steam. “He tossed you aside like a bad cucumber before you could stir up trouble within.”
Chip’s face reddened. “When exactly did you arrive in town, Roseanne,” he inquired.
“None of your business,” she snapped.
My ears perked up. Heavy steps were approaching from the direction I’d come. Not wanting to get caught in the hallway, I ducked in the bathroom to take care of legitimate needs. At least my appearance will look normal when I popped back out.
When I cracked open the bathroom door to enter the hallway again, I heard Anita’s southern drawl. “There you are Roseanne. I’ve been looking all over for you. I should’ve figured you’d be busy with other things.”
Roseanne laughed. “Hush up. Chip and I crossed paths on the stairs. That’s all.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Hey, you don’t believe me, go ask him.”
“Calm down. I believe you.”
“So why were you looking for me?” Roseanne asked. “It’s not break time for you yet, is it?”
“Nah. I heard you were in the building and I thought you’d want to know about Paul Mason since you two had a thing going.”
“Oh? Thanks. But Sharon broke the news a few minutes ago.”
The bathroom door closed loudly behind me, startling the two women. They glanced in my direction. “Nice to see you again, Roseanne. Sorry, if I scared you gals, I didn’t mean to. I had to make an emergency pit stop,” I explained. “Forgot to watch how many cups of coffee I had before leaving home.” I slowly pivoted in the direction of the work area and began to head that way.
Wait, Mary,” Anita said, “I’m coming with you. Catch you next time, Roseanne.”
“You bet.”
~36~
Day 13
“Mary, I’m making banana pancakes if you’re interested,” Aunt Zoe announced through the tightly closed bedroom door.
Halfway between reality and dreamland, I mumbled, “Okay,” and yawned. Then I slowly rose to a sitting position, dangled my legs over the edge of the bed, stretched my arms overhead, and wiggled my fingers at the off-white ceiling. “Ow. Ow.” Dumb move. The arms hadn’t recovered sufficiently from yesterday’s work load at the plant. Looks like the housework I wanted to get done before Matt got back will have to wait another day.
I gently lowered the sore arms and automatically grabbed for the bathrobe lying at the foot of the bed. Ever since I’d been made fun of by an early morning visitor, namely Rod Thompson, I didn’t dare march to the kitchen wearing nothing but holey PJ’s.
My aunt’s brief words regarding breakfast didn’t really sink in until I reached the archway dividing the small kitchen from the hallway. “Pancakes?” The last time she attempted to make them they got so charred even the birds at the park refused to eat them.
Aunt Zoe greeted me with a cheery, “Good morning sleepy head,” while keeping her focus on the stove and a frying pan. Even though her hair was still in those humongous rollers she likes to use, she’d already changed from her bed wear to a wardrobe consisting of a fire-engine-red two-piece sweat suit and matching tennis shoes.
Good Lord! The woman’s ready for Christmas and I haven’t even purchased one gift yet. I forced myself to come back with a cheery greeting before I inched my way to the table, even though my body wasn’t about to take part in fake enthusiasm.
“I figured the banana pancakes would get you moving on a Saturday morning,” she said over her shoulder. “You seemed to like them as a kid.”
I bit my lower lip. That’s because I instructed you on how to make them. “Oh, yum. I can’t wait.” I pulled out the nearest chair and plopped down. While patiently waiting for Mrs. Claus to surprise me with what I’d hoped would be edible pancakes at least six inches in diameter, thoughts soon surfaced concerning the possibility of gagging on the food soon to be served.
A few seconds later Aunt Zoe left the stove behind and waltzed over to the table with two coffee mugs, one filled and the other not, and what looked like an empty plate. The plate was for me. I’d no idea who the empty second mug was for. “Enjoy.”
As hungry as I was, I couldn’t possibly put anything in my mouth yet. I had to know what the extra coffee mug meant. Would someone be joining us or had my aunt simply assumed I wanted coffee? I stabbed the mug with a finger. “What’s with this? I didn’t request one.”
“It’s for Margaret,” she said, sitting in the chair opposite me where she’d set one of her latest collections of coffee mugs purchased from a Goodwill store. “She asked to stop by.”
“When did you see her?”
Her hand shot to the cup of coffee sitting in front of her. �
��I ran into her about a half hour ago when I went to dump the trash down the chute.”
“Ah?” I stared at the two tanned circles the size of silver dollars lying on my plate, expecting them to expand any second. Surely she doesn’t plan to offer our neighbor breakfast too. “Looks like the pancakes shrunk. What happened?”
“Every time I tried flipping a regular size pancake it fell apart.” She embraced her arms. “So I decided to stick to a smaller version. Hope you don’t mind.”
My stomach demanded a larger breakfast, but I didn’t care. The pancakes were made and my aunt expected me to scarf them down, so I would. I grabbed the maple syrup and drizzled it over the tiny pancakes. Then I tasted one. Despite the fact that there wasn’t much to munch on, the pancake got lodged in the roof of my mouth.
“Well, what do you think? Do they taste as good as you remember?”
Still fighting with the doughy substance, I simply nodded.
My aunt sighed. “Good. I was hoping I’d put enough bananas in it. When you’re ready for more, let me know. There’s plenty of batter left.”
Oh, Gracie, if only you were here. Maybe I can drop the other one on the floor by accident.
“Buongiorno,” Margaret sang out in her usual charming way as she shuffled her light body across the kitchen floor while toting a pan of caramel rolls. Her green and red apron edged with white ruffles worn over a long-sleeved hunter-green knit top and pants went well with Aunt Zoe’s choice of outfits. “These baked rolls are fresh out of the oven. Would anyone like one?”
“Would I ever,” I said.
“But, Mary,” Aunt Zoe whined, “you didn’t clean your plate yet.”
I crossed my feet. “I will.”
As soon as my aunt got up to get plates and forks for her and Margaret, I took a roll and stowed the remaining pancake in the paper napkin on my lap.
Death of the Pickle King Page 17