To my surprise I didn’t have to warn Butch to get off the premises after all. Anita beat me to it. “Butch, are you crazy?” she hollered, running towards him full speed ahead despite the snow-covered parking lot. When she finally stood toe to toe with him, she tried to grab the sign out of his firm grip. “Get rid of that sign and leave before someone calls the police.”
I backed Anita up. “She’s right, Butch. You don’t want to end up in the slammer again. Your relatives would be devastated, especially Gertie’s brother who put up your bail.”
Butch’s white moistened mustache twitched. He disengaged his fingers from the cigarette he’d been holding, watched it fall to the wet parking lot, and then stomped on it. “You gals don’t understand.”
“What don’t we understand?” I quizzed, as I spit out the damp scarf along with my words. “That you’re going to get in trouble spelled JAIL?”
“Nope. Chip called me yesterday,” he explained. “I don’t have to worry about that any more. I can stay on this property as long as I want.”
Anita hid her hands in her jacket pockets. “So, Chip called. Big deal. He has no authority here. Besides, he can’t help you from a hospital bed. Did he even mention that teeny fact?”
“Of course, that’s why I’m here. Chip said he realizes now that I didn’t steal the recipes or kill Don.”
I didn’t know what to think about Chip reaching out to Butch. Could it be he was responsible for Paul Mason’s death and wanted the police to finger Butch instead? I shook my head. I’d have to analyze Chip’s motives later. All I knew was the guy standing in front of me could be in grave danger showing his face around here, and the only way I could protect him was to get him as far away from the plant as possible.
“Look, Anita and I were heading to my car to discuss a few things. Why, don’t you join us? We’d like to hear what else Chip shared with you.”
Anita must’ve thought I was trying to pacify him. She supported my idea whole-heartedly. “Yah, Butch, come to Mary’s car for a few minutes. We don’t want to continue talking out here. It’s too cold. Besides, we don’t know who’s watching us.”
Butch slicked his long wet hair behind his ears. “You’re right. I didn’t really think this through.” Then he pointed to me. “So where you got your car stashed?”
I dug my cars keys out of my purse and pointed to the left of the lot. “See the navy VW two rows back?”
Chip nodded. “Ah huh.”
“That’s the one.”
As soon as the three of us got in the car and closed the doors, I turned the fan up in the VW as high as it would go to warm us up. I didn’t want anyone whining about blue lips; although, I couldn’t picture a big guy like Butch, sitting up front with me, complaining about being cold. Anita, on the other hand, who sat directly behind him, her idea not his, probably wished that she’d gotten first chance at feeling the heat the way her teeth chattered. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear a squirrel had taken up residence in the back seat.
Since Anita and I had planned to discuss possible ways of catching the person or persons who killed Don Hickleman and Paul Mason without interference from anyone, I chose to pump Gertie’s cousin first and send him on his merry way.
Before the drilling proceeded though, I shifted my body from it’s straight on position overlooking the other cars to a sideways one facing Butch, making it easier for Anita to hear me. “Okay, Butch, why don’t you finish telling us gals about the conversation you had with Chip.”
Butch tried to copy me and situate his large frame sideways too, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate and he finally gave up. “Like I said Chip contacted me. He mentioned having an accident at work and that he ended up in the hospital. When I asked what happened, he said he got a call Saturday night saying he needed to get to the plant. There was some problem dealing with one of the vats. But when he got there, he couldn’t find anything wrong.”
So far his story confirmed what Anita and I already knew. I adjusted the car fan to low speed. Then I threw off my neck scarf and opened my jacket.
Anita leaned between the two front seats. I noticed she’d already removed her gold-toned well-worn Down Parka. “Did he say he recognized the caller’s voice?” she hastily inquired.
“Nope.” Butch unzipped his bulky jacket as well. “But he did tell me his feet didn’t give out near the steps, someone shoved him from behind.”
Anita’s voice rang out. “I knew it. I knew it. There’s a curse on the plant. Maybe old man Hickleman has come back from the dead to get his revenge.”
The woman’s beginning to sound like my aunt. “That’s a bunch of malarkey,” I said. “No one’s come back from anywhere. A real live person is rattling cages. But the question is who? Butch, are you free Wednesday night?”
“You betcha. Why, you got a ticket for the Viking’s game you can’t use?
“Afraid not. But there’s going to be a huge gathering I think you might want to check out.”
“Oh, yeah. Is it even better than watching a Viking’s game?”
I nodded. “It could be. Bromley Funeral Home is holding a viewing of Paul Mason’s body. You should be on hand for it, don’t you think, Anita?”
“Oh, girl,” Anita hooted, “you must really love fireworks.”
~44~
Day 16
The hinges on the bedroom door creaked, giving me fair warning that Aunt Zoe was about to enter without permission. Usually I’d complain, but not today.
I didn’t sleep a wink last night. It started around one with a fever and eventually morphed into frequent calls of nature mixed with dizziness and an achy body that felt like a ten ton truck had rolled over it.
“Mary, honey, you’re going to be late for work if you don’t get up,” my aunt said with a syrupy tone, totally ignorant of my condition.
I tried to roll over to face the door so she could see me, but couldn’t manage it. “I’m too sick to care,” I moaned. “I just want to curl up in a ball and die.”
“Don’t talk like that,” she grumbled. “You may get your wish the longer you stay at that pickle plant.”
“Pickles!” Yuk. Why did she have to mention that? My stomach rumbled again. I don’t know how long I can hold off before, well, you know. “I didn’t intend to upset you, Auntie. Could you...could you do me a favor?” I asked, as my voice trailed off.
She opened the door wider. “What is it? Do you want a glass of water? Should I call a doctor?”
“No doctor. No water. Both are pointless,” I forced myself to say. “Just call the pickle plant. Ask for Sharon Sylvester. Tell her I’ve been bit by the flu bug.”
“Is Sharon the head honcho over there?”
I tried to nod but was too racked with pain. “Yes. She’s been running the show since Don Hickleman’s death.”
“Where’s the number, on your phone or written down?”
Good grief. Why would anyone play a game of twenty questions with a sick person? I laid a hand on my feverish forehead and tried to recall what I did with the number. “Look for a small blue piece of paper by the kitchen phone.”
Instead of zipping off to take care of my request, Aunt Zoe questioned the veracity of my statement. “Are you sure? I don’t remember seeing anything on the counter by the phone that remotely resembles a note.”
My stomach turned nasty. I took the warning to heart. The discussion concerning the phone number had to be tabled.
“Quick, move out of the way,” I warned my aunt, giving her ample time to comply while I forced my weak body out of the position it had been in.
Aunt Zoe heeded the message. She scooted out of the doorway before my feet even had a chance to make it past the bedding. Having never seen her move so swiftly before, even when Reed Griffin, her boyfriend, picks her up for a date, I couldn’t help wondering if the expensive slippers covering her feet were what motivated her to respond in such a way.
When I finally dragged my wobbly self into the hall for the short t
rek to the bathroom, I expected Aunt Zoe to be gone, but she was still firmly planted outside the bedroom door, and boy did she let loose with a tactless comment. “I kept telling you to get your flu shot, Mary. See what happens when you don’t listen.”
I wrung my hands. If they found me standing over her dead body someday, I could always claim self-defense.
BY MID-DAY I FELT MUCH better and let Aunt Zoe know via the cell phone that I was accepting any charitable contributions of food, especially a bowl of Campbell’s Chicken soup, something I knew her cooking skills couldn’t destroy, and plenty of saltine crackers.
“Coming right up,” she replied, “I’ve been keeping the soup warm on the stove. All I have to do is ladle it up.”
A few minutes later my aunt stiffly entered the bedroom in full sweat gear, carrying the tray of food so tightly her knuckles had turned a ghostly white. At least the honeydew colored outfit she wore wasn’t as outlandish as the eggplant colored negligee she appeared at my door in this morning.
After she set the tray on my lap, she studied my face for a moment. “I think the coloring in your face has greatly improved since this morning, Mary. Would you like me to grab a hand mirror so you can see for yourself?”
Is she crazy? Every morning this gal is greeted by matted hair, baggy eyes, and a blank colorless face before getting ready for work. I certainly don’t need a dose of it today. “No, thanks,” I said, crushing a cracker over the soup and then mixing it in with the noodles and broth. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Well, then, how about I get a magazine for you to read or maybe invite someone to keep you company?” she asked with the enthusiasm of a well-trained nurse determined to do whatever it took to make her patient’s stay in bed more pleasant.
Even though I’d rather chat with a person than read, I knew I had to mention who would be off limits. “I certainly hope you’re not referring to Rod Thompson or Reed. I’d be too embarrassed to have them see me like this.” I picked up the soup spoon and dipped it in the bowl to gather up broth, noodles and cracker crumbs.
“Actually I didn’t have any man in mind,” she replied, taking a napkin off the tray and tucking it into the opening of my pajama top. “I haven’t told Reed or Rod that you’re sick. And I certainly don’t know how to contact David or Trevor. I was thinking of Margaret. She’s inquired about you several times already.”
I swallowed the tasty liquid and then rested the spoon in the bowl. “Margaret’s so sweet. I imagine she’s up-to-date with her shots like you, but I still don’t think she should sit in this bedroom. Why don’t you call and tell her I’m feeling better. And if she insists on coming over, put a kitchen chair outside my door and she can visit from a safe distance.”
“All right. I’ll give her a jingle and see what she says,” and then she buzzed out the door leaving me alone to finish my meal.
Margaret must’ve been mighty antsy to get over here to check on me. The second the soup in my bowl disappeared I heard a knock at the door. It was followed by a quick question presented to Aunt Zoe. “Is Mary still in bed?”
“Yes,” she answered, “but she asked me to set a chair outside her room for you.”
“Whatever for?” Margaret inquired, sounding a bit testy. “I’ve had a flu shot.”
“Mary thought you might’ve, but she wants to play it safe. She says it’s possible she could have a different flu strain than what this year’s shot protects us from.”
“Well, there is always a chance of that.”
The conversation between the two women ended. The next thing I heard was feet shuffling down the hall towards the bedroom. It had to be our neighbor. Aunt Zoe makes more noise with her feet than the light-weight Margaret ever could.
“Mary, dear, I’m here,” Margaret quietly announced, briefly poking her head in the doorway.”
“I appreciate your coming over on such short notice. I’m bored to death.”
“I understand that’s always a good sign, dear, when a person who has been ill mentions boredom. Did Zoe call Hinkleman’s to tell them you wouldn’t be in?”
I moved the tray to the end of the bed where I’d have less chance of knocking it on the floor and scaring the woman in her nineties who came to keep me company. “Yes, I made sure she did that this morning. Say, Margaret, do you remember my telling you about the note I found on Paul Mason?”
“Si. I do. Did you conclude who wrote it?”
“Not yet. But another guy, Butch mentioned to me before I started working at Hickleman’s, got injured late Saturday evening.”
“Did this happen at the plant?” she quizzed.
“Yes. Chip, the one who got hurt, says he would never have gone there if it hadn’t been for a call he received concerning problems with a vat.”
“Hmm? I suppose you couldn’t very well visit Chip in the hospital and question him further about that night, without him guessing what you’re up to, could you.”
I yawned. Evidently I wasn’t feeling as chipper as I thought or the lunch that Aunt Zoe prepared was weighing too heavily on my stomach, making me desire a good snooze instead of chatting with Margaret. “No,” I replied, “but he did reach out to Butch.” I released another yawn.
“Butch?” When Margaret spit his name out, she sounded like a mother whale giving birth. “Why would he contact him? According to Gertie Butch hasn’t worked at the plant since being tossed in jail for the theft of company recipes.”
My eyelids flickered. “I know it sounded odd when I heard about the call too.”
I’d been sitting up so long the strain on my back and butt needed to be relieved. I stretched and then slid further under the covers, being careful not to kick the tray off the bed. Ah. The supine position felt good. All I could think of was going to sleep. “Can’t stay awake,” I mumbled. “Explain tomorrow. Butch is going to a fun... funeral”. Then I conked out.
~45~
Day 17
“Sorry I had to put you back on the pickle packing line again, Mary,” Anita said as we slid into a newly emptied booth at 3 Squares, a restaurant at Arbor Lakes in Maple Grove, the eatery we’d chosen to meet for supper before going to view Paul Mason’s body at Bromley Funeral Home. “But I had no choice. Several people from that particular section called in this morning saying the flu bug had caught up with them.”
“Sounds like I’m not the only one who puts off shots as long as they can.” I unbuttoned my wool dress coat and studied one of the two menus the waitress had left on the table.
“I hate shots too,” Anita declared, “but I decided to get one the beginning of November after all the warnings they’d announced on TV about this flu season being bad for older people. Not that I’m that old,” she snickered, “but I am burning up in this jacket.”
After removing the bulky jacket she complained about, Anita plucked off her large glasses next and quickly propped a pair of fire-engine red readers on the edge of her nose, a much needed item that would allow her to examine the other copy of the restaurant’s lengthy menu.
“So what do you think?” I asked, continuing to peruse the menu.
Anita peered over the top of the readers and lowered her menu. “What do you mean? Are you referring to the meals or the viewing?”
I glanced around the section we were sitting in curious to see if other employees had stopped in here too, but didn’t see any familiar faces. “Well, food is definitely on my mind of course, but I’m actually more interested in how many people you think will show up at the funeral home.”
Anita rubbed her wide forehead. “Lordy, I haven’t a clue. I know a lot of people talked about it over the lunch hour, but no one actually shared that they’d show up.”
The young waitress finally finished up at the booth behind us and returned to ours. “Are you two ready to order?”
I glanced at my watch: 5:00. Paul Mason’s viewing starts at six. “I am,” I replied, “How about you, Anita?”
“Yup.” She pressed her fingers to h
er plump face. “We don’t have a lot of time to sit and gab,” she informed the waitress, “so how about bringing me a pulled pork sandwich, sweet potato fries and a Pepsi. Your turn, Mary.”
I passed on the pulled pork even though it was tempting and went for the crunchy shrimp, a small salad, and water instead.
“Is that all for you gals?”
“Yup,” we replied in unison as if we were twins.
“Okay. I’ll check back later to see if you want a dessert.”
When the waitress walked away, I told Anita I planned to control my sweet tooth urges. “No dessert for me, at least not here.”
“I feel the same way. We’ll be too rushed with our meal as it is without adding a few more minutes to shovel down a slice of cake or pie. But I gotta admit, when the restaurant hostess walked by a couple seconds ago with a dessert tray, I almost followed her to the kitchen. Shoot! Maybe I should order a dessert to go. I could wrap cake or a bar in a napkin and toss it in my clunky purse I brought.” She held up her purse so I could see how big it was.
It reminded me of the hot-pink and purple-splotched purse Aunt Zoe owned. I swear everything but the kitchen sink could fits in hers. “It looks like you’ve got room in there for a couple meals, plus dessert.”
She set the purse down and wagged her finger. “That’s why I bought the darn thing. My nosy neighbors don’t need to know how often I go out to eat.”
With the discussion concerning Anita’s purse ended, we now rehashed the demise of Don Hickleman and Paul Mason. Unfortunately, we didn’t come to any conclusion regarding who wanted the men out of the way or why.
I slid my glass of water closer to me and took a sip. “Maybe we’ll get some answers at Bromley’s tonight, Anita.”
“I hope so.” She tore the paper wrapper off her straw and poked it in her Pepsi. “I can’t handle any more deaths at the plant. My nerves are shot. And the blood pressure meds I’m on aren’t helping.”
Death of the Pickle King Page 21