Pickled (An Alex Harris Mystery) (20 page)

I looked out the window. It was still dark. I went back to the kitchen for another cup of tea and then brought up the Internet and searched for Shirley Reynolds. I found a few more sites with her business address and reviews. Almost all of them were favorable except for a couple. After reading through them it looked like they had been written by disgruntled spouses who had been caught in an unfavorable act by Shirley. I continued to search for a few minutes longer and found nothing untoward about the woman.

I then searched for Humphrey. There were lots of PDF files of minutes from town council meetings. I read a couple and though mostly boring, they did show Humphrey had a propensity for causing trouble—no surprise there—fighting several agenda items at each meeting. It was pretty dull stuff and I started to drift off. I kept at it a bit longer and didn’t find much of anything except some mention of a Humphrey Bryson in Chicago. The age seemed right, but to get any further information, I would have to subscribe to the site and pay a fee. What could it possibly give me? I already knew he came from the Midwest. Other than that, I found nothing else. It was like the man moved to Pirates Cove all those years ago and had no past before that. The truth is this didn’t mean much. I also searched for myself and, other than a few mentions of my business and some charity functions I helped organized, there was nothing else. One could conclude I, too, had no life before I started my business, which of course was not the case.

But then I remembered what John had told me about Humphrey having plastic surgery and I had to wonder if perhaps the man changed more than his face. Maybe he changed his name.

I finally fell back to sleep only to be rudely awoken four hours later. Mary-Beth Ramsey, my best friend from school, also had a restless night and wanted to meet for breakfast. As John would either be working or going over to Michael’s, I took a quick shower, kissed my dozing husband on the cheek and drove over to a coffee shop on the outskirts of town that served a hearty breakfast at a great price—my kind of place.

“So why would someone change their name?” I asked Mary-Beth while I slathered butter on an English muffin.

Mary-Beth, dressed in jeans and a bulky green cable knit sweater, the always-present gold ball earrings secured to her ear lobes, looked across the table at me and shrugged. “Lots of reasons, I suppose. Maybe he hated the name he was born with. Or maybe he’s in witness protection. Or maybe he’s a fugitive from justice.” She took a sip of her coffee. “You don’t even know for sure that he did change his name.”

“No, but why go to the trouble of changing your face and not your name?”

“Again, you don’t know he changed his face. Yes, he had plastic surgery, but he may have been in a horrible accident. But I do like the way you think! You’re so nefarious.” Mary-Beth pushed a piece of her dark, Dorothy Hamill-styled hair out of her eyes.

I reached for my tea and cradled the warm cup.

“Does that help?” Mary-Beth asked, looking at my hands.

“A little, but to tell you the truth, I’ve been feeling pretty good. The meds are obviously working.” I took a bite of a crispy strip of bacon. “So why didn’t his wife know? She had no idea he’d had plastic surgery. That’s something you would tell your spouse, right?”

“Probably. At least I would. But maybe it happened a long time ago and he was self-conscious about it. Besides, from what you tell me, it doesn’t sound like they had a warm and fuzzy relationship.”

I sighed. “No, I guess they didn’t, but they must have had at some point, don’t you think?”

“I have no idea, Alex. You have a lot of holes to fill.” Mary-Beth tilted her head toward the front of the restaurant where the check-out counter was. “I see they have your calendar up. I’ve even seen a few in shops in Stamford. You’re doing well.”

I looked over at the calendar and smiled. “We are. They almost sell themselves.”

“Hey, I bought mine because of Mr. June alone.” At the mention of Mr. June, Howard Wronkovich, I frowned, and of course Mary-Beth picked up on it. “What’s with the face?”

“Nothing, really. Well, okay, Howard, the object of your affection, had a few run-ins with Humphrey. Not something I would ever kill over, mind you, but Howard’s a sensitive guy,
very
sensitive, and Humphrey was horrible to him. And he was horrible to Walter Hofstader as well. Do you think Hofstader is a German name?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“No reason. I’m just trying to find out where everyone came from originally to see if there’s any cross over with Humphrey. Maybe something from the past got him killed and not his current lascivious ways.”

I munched on another strip of bacon and some hash browns and then I had an idea. I took out my cell phone and turned it on.

“Who are you calling?” Mary-Beth asked.

“Meme. She’ll know where everyone grew up.” I pressed the speed dial button for my grandmother and she answered on the first ring. I placed the small phone on the table and put it on speaker so Mary-Beth could hear, but kept the volume down so as not to disturb others around me.

“Meme, I’m having breakfast with Mary-Beth and we’re talking about the murder and I wanted to know where Fred and Walter and Howard grew up?”

“Hi, Mary-Beth.”

“Hi, Meme.”

“The calendar boys, Meme. Where were they born?” I wanted to hurry up the call. I had a thing about cell phones and their constant intrusion into every nook and cranny of life and I didn’t want to be one of
those
kinds of people.

“Fred was born in London but came here young and he’s been here ever since. Walter was actually born in Germany, but his parents moved here when he was just a boy. I don’t like helping you to pin the murder on one of them, kiddo.”

“I’m trying to eliminate them, Meme.”

“Well, okay then.”

I waited a second and heard nothing. “Meme? What about Howard?”

“Oh, yeah, Howard. I forget the name of the town. He grew up there and his family moved to Connecticut when he was in high school, I believe.”

“What town? Where is it? Connecticut?”

“No, no. Some suburb of Chicago. Oh, I got it! Cicero, like they got in New York. Yeah, right near Chicago.”

I thanked Meme and put the phone back in my purse.

“Well, that’s not good,” I said to Mary-Beth.

“Why? What does any of this have to do with Humphrey?”

“Because I think Humphrey was from Chicago and I’m starting to think Howard didn’t tell me the whole story.”

Fred was born in London, Walter in Germany, and Howard outside Chicago. Why didn’t I know any of this? And why should I? Truth was they were Meme’s friends, not mine. But once again, did it mean anything?

I waited for Mary-Beth to pull out of the driveway and then fell in behind her. We both took the turnpike, but as I approached the exit for Pirates Cove I tooted my horn and waved good-bye to her as she continued on to Stamford. After our long breakfast, and then a trip to the drug store next to the diner, I felt it was now a reasonable hour to drive by the Bryson home. I didn’t think Sophie would be back from Wisconsin yet, but she may have managed to catch a late-night flight home after John’s call.

As I approached the home I saw two cars in the driveway. Someone was at the house. I parked and walked up a recently shoveled path.

Janet Bryson answered the door. “I suppose you heard about the robbery?”

“I did. My husband told me last night.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes, Detective Van der Burg.”

Janet smiled. “Well, aren’t you the lucky girl. He’s quite the catch.”

Janet obviously hadn’t seen the man this morning with his hair disheveled and two day’s worth of stubble. Actually, I liked the stubble and wished he would avoid shaving more often. I’m one of these women who like a man with hair, and besides having a lot on his head, my husband also had a moderately hairy chest, which I liked to tease him about and call the carpet of pleasure. My sister thinks I’m crazy.

“Thanks. He’s a good guy. So, is your grandmother back yet?”

“No. Hopefully tomorrow. My dad and I spent the night. We didn’t want the house to be exposed. Someone broke the back door lock and my dad will fix that today.”

“I’m glad he’s here. I’d like to talk with him, but first, can I ask you some questions?”

“Sure. Come on in. I was just making a fresh pot of coffee. Want some?”

“A tea would be nice.” I followed her into the kitchen where Sophie had made the hot chocolate the week before.

“English Breakfast okay?”

I nodded. “Janet, I was at the infusion center on Thursday and I overheard you talking about wanting to buy a new home.”

Janet blushed slightly. “Did I?”

“Yes. It also sounded like you didn’t get along well with your grandfather.”

“You’ve got that partially correct. My grandfather didn’t get along with
me
, or my father. You’ve been talking with people all week, so you probably figured out he didn’t get along with anyone.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “From what I heard you say, now that he’s dead, it might be easier for you to get the money from your grandmother to buy the house.”

Janet poured hot water into a mug, handed it to me and came around the counter and took the other bar stool next to mine. “Is that wrong? Look, despite the fact my grandfather thought both me and my dad are deadbeats, you saw for yourself that I have a job, a good job. I’m a nurse for God’s sake, so it’s not like I spent my life with my hand out. I didn’t. But I don’t have the down payment for the house. It’s a great investment, and after my divorce I had to move into an apartment, plus I still have my student loan to pay off. It would be nice to have my own home again.”

“I get where you’re going with this. You want to know if I would kill Humphrey because he wouldn’t loan me the money. The answer is no. Do I hope now with him gone my grandmother will help me out? Sure. But the truth is, she’s not my biggest fan, either.”

“Why is that?” I asked. I remembered Sophie telling me what an awful child Janet was and so far, I wasn’t getting that impression.

Janet sighed and twirled a piece of her hair around her finger. “A couple of reasons. My grandmother hated my mom. I told you that already. Fair enough. My mother was a mess, drugs, other men, the works. Then I decided to go to school and my grandmother thought that was horrible. She wanted me to get married, be a wife. I eventually did get married and then made the fatal mistake of getting a divorce. So, I was just like my father; couldn’t keep my marriage together, saddled with debt. Didn’t matter that it was for my education.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Everyone has baggage, right? Look, my grandfather wasn’t the nicest of men, but believe it or not I have some good memories of him playing with me as a kid. Somewhere inside him there was a soft side at one time. I wasn’t crazy about the man, but I wouldn’t kill him. I have a master’s in nursing, for God’s sake. My life is dedicated to helping people, not killing them.”

She sounded sincere to me, if perhaps a bit sad. If there was anything there that would have led to murder, I couldn’t see it. I decided to change subjects. “Okay. Tell me what happened here last night?”

“Someone broke in. As far as we can tell only two things were taken; a vase and a small picture on the wall in his study.”

“Were they valuable?” I asked.

Janet shrugged. “I don’t know. My grandfather said they were family heirlooms. I figured they had sentimental value and that was about all.”

I studied Janet for a few moments over the rim of my tea cup. She seemed sincere, but she also seemed to think her family owed her something because of their wealth. Maybe she didn’t kill her grandfather, but the hoped-for handout from her grandmother wasn’t forthcoming so far, and she didn’t want to lose out on a great deal. So, I had to wonder, did Janet Bryson, in her desire to buy a little cottage by the beach, decide to take matters into her own hands and steal her grandfather’s art?

Robert Bryson came into the kitchen freshly showered and dressed, his bald head still pink from the hot water.

“Mr. Bryson, your daughter was just telling me it looks like only two things were taken.”

Robert poured himself a cup of coffee, added some sugar and took a sip. “As far as we can tell.”

“Do you know why someone would take those items and not a television or computer?” I asked.

“No idea. I didn’t know they had any value to anyone other than my dad, but my mother should be able to give you more information when she gets back later today.”

“Are there other paintings in the home?” I asked.

“Several, but they’re exactly where they’ve always been.” Robert shrugged and took another sip of coffee.

Janet turned her attention from her father back to me. “Maybe the robber didn’t have time to take anything else. Maybe he started to grab stuff, heard something and ran before he could take more.”

“I suppose that could have happened,” I said.

“Look, I’m working today, so I have to go get dressed. It was nice seeing you again.”

Janet left the kitchen, leaving me alone with Robert. Did this man kill his father and then stage a robbery? I had no idea. I knew next to nothing about him.

“You must be very proud of your daughter. Nursing is a noble profession.”

“Yeah, she’s a good kid. Despite what she’s been through with her mother and, well, me, she turned out okay.”

“What do you do, Mr. Bryson?” I asked.

“Robert, please. Mr. Bryson sounds like my father. What do I do? Well, I managed a sporting goods store for a while, and a bunch of odd jobs, and most recently I work for my parents as a property manager for some of their investments. They own a small complex of apartments and I live there rent free in exchange for being the on-site manager.”

“Was that difficult, working directly with your dad?”

“He treated me exactly as he’s always treated me, which is to say he treated me like I was the idiot child who should have been locked up in the attic.”