Pickled (An Alex Harris Mystery) (11 page)

Another possible lead shot to hell. Sure, Humphrey bullied Cyril, but again, was it anything to kill over? And was Cyril strong enough to hold Humphrey down? I didn’t think so.

“Meme, I don’t think I’m going to be able to solve this one.”

“Start looking into the man’s life.”

I turned and looked at my grandmother. “What do you mean? I’ve been looking at his life.”

“Yeah, but you’re concentrating on the pickleball group. Just cuz the man got killed at a team supper doesn’t mean his murder had anything to do with the game. A total stranger still could have come in and killed him for the simple fact there were so many people around. The police would have a ton of suspects. Or it was a team member, but they killed him for reasons other than the game.”

I thought about this for a bit and then I asked Meme if she was ready to go. There was someone else I wanted to speak with and if I hurried I could make it there before it got too dark.

I found Shirley Reynolds sitting at her desk typing and sipping a cup of hot tea. Of course I could have just called, but after sitting all afternoon I felt restless and needed to get out and I didn’t want to go back to work. I was turning into a horrible businesswoman.

“Alex, what brings you back to Westport?” Shirley got up, went into the back room and came back a minute later and placed a cup of tea in front of me. “Must be Humphrey.”

“It is. I think I may be going about this all wrong.”

“How so?” Shirley asked.

“I’ve been concentrating on the pickleball players, but his life had to have more in it than that.” I took a sip of the tea, cradling the warm cup. “So I got to wondering why exactly he went all the way to New York, spent a small amount of time at a gallery, and then had lunch alone. Seems like a long way to go for a meal.”

Shirley smiled. “I like the way you think. So tell me,” she began from her seat behind the desk, “what does your husband think of you going around playing amateur detective? He’s a police officer, correct?”

“He’s a detective. I think he’s getting used to my asking questions and giving him information. It’s amazing how I seem to get stuff out of people that he can’t.”

“Yeah, people hate talking to cops. I think it’s too late to go now and besides I have to work tonight. Wife wants the goods on her husband so she can divorce him and take the guy to the cleaners and boy, do I have dirt, but how about tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning?” I asked. I had no idea what Shirley was talking about.

“Sure, we can hop the ten o’clock train, check out the gallery where Humphrey went, grab some lunch and come back.

I smiled. “I like the way you think.”

*****

I got home well before John and decided to cook him dinner for a change. We had been eating out or John had been cooking and I felt like making a home-cooked meal.

I pulled some pork chops out of the refrigerator and put them in a frying pan to brown. While they were cooking I started the stuffing with some cornbread I had let get stale, an onion, some garlic, chopped celery and plenty of sage and marjoram. Once the chops were nice and crispy on the outside, I placed them in a baking dish, topped them with a mound of the cornbread mixture, drizzled the pork chop drippings over the whole thing, and placed the baking dish in the oven.

Next, I sautéed some Brussels sprouts in a bit of butter and added a pinch of black pepper and salt. I moved them to a small bowl and placed them on the table just as John walked in the door.

“Wow, what smells so good?”

“Pork chops and cornbread stuffing. I felt like having a heavy winter meal,” I said as I placed a kiss on John’s cold cheek.

John hung his coat in the small mud room off the kitchen and started to set the table. “I found out some interesting stuff on your Mr. Roder today. He was asked to leave the Bridgeport police because of conduct unbecoming.”

“Such as?” I took the pork chops from the oven and put them on the table on one of the large potholders I made over the holidays.

“When he was on the force there was a large drug bust. Money, drugs, prescription drugs, mostly. Tons of stuff was confiscated. Some of it, the money, went missing. Everyone knew it was him and to avoid a lot of scandal at a time when the entire department was going through a real shake up and a change of some key personnel, they gave him the option to quit. An offer he couldn’t refuse or he would have been prosecuted.”

“And the money? Did he give it back?” I asked.

“What was left of it. The rest he gambled away.” John placed a chop on my plate and then took one for himself. “So we know the man isn’t above the law. I think I’ll bring him in and see what he has to say about Humphrey.”

“He’s blackmailing someone. He may be blackmailing more than one person, but I do know for certain he’s getting money from someone.”

John stopped his fork midway to his mouth and looked at me. “Who’s he blackmailing?”

I wiped some stuffing from my mouth and shook my head. “No, John, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. If it got out it would cause family problems, maybe even a divorce. Isn’t it enough you know what Mr. Roder is up to? If he cops to the blackmail, so be it, but I don’t want to be your source.”

“Alex, listen to me. This is a murder investigation. Terry Roder may be blackmailing this person because he saw them kill Humphrey Bryson.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Why? Because the person told you so? Do you really think the killer is going to admit being blackmailed because they got caught shoving a pickle down someone’s throat?”

I thought about this for a minute while I pushed a Brussels sprout around my plate. “Okay. I see your point.”

“So? Who is Terry Roder blackmailing?”

I gave a resigned sigh. “Marie Dupre. She likes men, he knows it and she’s giving him money on a regular base to keep Terry from telling Sid. Sid Dupre, her husband.”

“And Marie was at the pickleball supper. And she had a reason to hate Humphrey.”

I gave a small gasp.

“What?” my husband asked. “You think you’re the only one who’s talked to the Dupres?” John ran a hand through his hair. “Granted, she never told me about Terry Roder, but I’m counting on
you
to tell me this stuff, Alex? I figure I’m never going to stop you, so I might as well use your fine-tuned people skills.”

I wasn’t about to tell John this little tidbit just fell into my lap. Let him think I was a valuable asset. I also wasn’t about to tell him I was heading to New York City in the morning. It was time to change the subject.

“If you eat everything on your plate there’s ice cream with homemade chocolate sauce.”

My husband gave me a big smile and popped a sprout into his mouth.

Before I started my own business in Indian Cove, I used to work in New York. I took the train every morning into the city and loved it. Sometimes I would read and sometimes knit, and a lot of the time I just watched the landscape go by.

Today was such a day. I sat next to Shirley, who was busy typing up a report on her laptop for one of her clients. She seemed positively giddy to have gotten the goods on the cheating husband. There seemed to be a lot of that going around—cheating husbands
and
wives, as it turned out. So was that what ultimately did Humphrey Bryson in—his cheating heart? Or was there something else in his life that caused someone to murder the man? And would we find it in New York? Or had the man just committed one too many foot fouls and cobra shots and got done in by an injured pickleball player? I had no idea and so far nothing jumped out at me I could call an actual lead.

The train started to slow and Shirley closed her laptop and put it in her backpack. I grabbed my coat from the overhead rack and pulled it on along with a pair of gloves. The day was cold and cloudy with the threat of snow in the forecast.

“The gallery’s not too far from here,” Shirley said, as we exited the terminal. “We can either take a cab or walk.”

“Walk.” I wrapped my scarf around my neck and tucked the ends into my jacket. “So, how should we play this?” I asked.

“I have a PI license and I assume you don’t.” Shirley glanced at me and I smiled.

“You’d be right about that.”

“Okay. So we just go in and I’ll tell them we’re helping the family find out what happened to Mr. Bryson. See their reaction and get a feel for the place, etc.”

We walked several blocks and then took a right and continued for several more. The cold air felt good after the stuffy rail car.

“This is it,” Shirley said, stopping in front of a small gallery. “Galerie Hildebrand.”

“Looks expensive,” I said, noticing the sign on the door and the elaborate script.

We walked in and my first thought was how do places like this stay in business? The rent for a postage-stamp size shop in New York must be astronomical and this place was a fairly decent-sized room; long and narrow, stark white walls, paintings that made no sense to me covering most of them. How many did one need to sell to pay the rent? I snuck a peek at a painting close to the front entrance and thought I could pay the rent on my office and my mortgage on my house for a year for what it cost. But this was New York and money was everywhere.

“May I help you?”

I turned around to see a painfully thin young woman, exquisitely dressed, with white skin and dark hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head. She adjusted her tight skirt and then placed her hands on the reception desk and folded them as if in prayer.

“Are you the owner?” Shirley asked.

“No. Mr. Hildebrand is in the back. Do you wish to speak with him?”

“Yes, if that would be possible.” Shirley waited until the woman retreated toward the back of the gallery and then said, “What would that little weasel Bryson be doing in a place like this?”

I nudged her and lifted my chin toward the back. “Looks like we’re going to find out.”

Mr. Hildebrand was also thin, dressed impeccably and had a stern look. Maybe you had to be skinny, well-dressed and devoid of emotion to work in art galleries. What did I know? Most of the stuff on my walls came from art.com but I paid a lot to have the poster art framed and thought it looked pretty nice.

Mr. Hildebrand looked at Shirley and then me. “May I help you?”

Shirley pulled a picture of Humphrey from her backpack and showed it to the gallery owner. “Have you seen this man recently?”

Mr. Hildebrand and the young woman I assumed was his assistant looked at the photo of Humphrey, exchanged looks and then shook their heads.

“No, not that I can recall.” Mr. Hildebrand handed the photo back to Shirley.

“Well, maybe this will jar your memory.”

I took a quick glance at what Shirley handed the man and saw it was a photo of Humphrey walking into this very gallery and it was stamped with a date from a few weeks ago. I really did like her style.

“Ah, yes. We have so many people coming through that it’s hard to remember one person,” the gallery owner said.

Shirley gave an exaggerated look around the very empty gallery and returned her gaze to Mr. Hildebrand. “May I ask the nature of his business with you?”

“Who exactly are you?”

“I’m working for the family,” Shirley said rather vaguely. “So again, what was the nature of his business here?”

“I’m afraid there’s really nothing to tell. He wanted us to find a buyer for some art and other objects that had been in his family, if I remember correctly. Suzanne? Isn’t that correct?” he asked the assistant.

“Ah, yes, exactly.”

“And I told him we could do a showing of his items, perhaps combined with some other artists but he said no. I doubt we’ll be seeing him again.”

“Oh, I’m sure you won’t be seeing him again. He was murdered on Saturday night.”

“Murdered?” Suzanne asked in almost a whisper.

“Yes. Murdered. I’m a private investigator and I’m looking into his death for his wife.”

“Well, I don’t see how we can possibly help you with a murder investigation,” Mr. Hildebrand said. “The man came in, asked his questions and was gone. I’m sorry, but if you don’t have any more questions, I need to make some calls. We’re having a showing of a new, vibrant artist next week and I need to firm up the details for his installation.”

“So what do you think?” I asked Shirley a minute later out on the sidewalk.

“One. He’s bonking Suzanne. As a matter of fact, I think we caught them mid-bonk. Two, he had no idea Humphrey was dead until we told him, and three, whatever the late Mr. Bryson wanted is now kaput and the gallery owner seems relieved.”

The waiter at the restaurant where Humphrey Bryson had eaten the day Shirley followed him to New York remembered him. Any hopes I had for some useful tidbits to add to the case were dashed when the man told us the only reason Humphrey stuck in his mind so clearly was because he complained about everything from the size of the portions to the color of the table cloth. They were glad to see the back of him especially since he walked out without leaving a tip. After that we headed to a favorite deli and I treated us to pastrami sandwiches.

“Let’s see if we can find out anything about Mr. Hildebrand and the lovely Suzanne on the Internet.” Shirley pulled out her laptop and started surfing the net while I people watched.

I love people-watching and can do it anywhere but New York City is a world unto itself. After I placed our order, I turned my attention to a young man seated at a table along the wall enjoying his sandwich while he chatted away to a jumbo sock monkey. Whether he truly believed the large sock was speaking to him or whether he was putting on a show for the other restaurant patrons, I wasn’t sure, but it was entertaining nevertheless.

I glanced over at Shirley. She was staring at the screen intently while her right index finger scrolled down the screen.

“Anything?”

“An Alastair Hildebrand…did he look like an Alastair?” Shirley asked. “An Alastair Hildebrand and partner were arrested in London about twenty years ago for selling art of questionable origin. No more information.”