Pickled (An Alex Harris Mystery) (8 page)

Our waiter came and we both ordered the pumpkin-filled ravioli and some more fried dough.

“A private investigator Mrs. Bryson hired to follow Mr. Bryson,” I began when the waiter had moved away, “but then Mr. Bryson found out and paid Terry to give his wife a bunch of bull and to start following a couple of women he was blackmailing.”

“Humphrey Bryson was blackmailing women?”

“Oh, yeah, and he was planning on divorcing his wife and said he wouldn’t give her a thing. Told her he would sooner kill her than see her get his money. But back to Terry Roder. Mrs. Bryson said he’s an ex cop. Could you check that out and let me know?”

“Sure. No problem. The Indian Cove police department is at your service.”

“Hey, we’re all on the same team, right? So that’s what I know so far. How about you? Anything you care to share with your wife?” I didn’t feel right sharing the private story Howard had told me. If it looked like the man might be a killer, I’d spill the beans to John, but for right now I felt safe keeping that information to myself, along with the fact that Humphrey paid Roder to look into Howard’s past.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. I’m not sure it has anything at all to do with his murder, but it seems Humphrey Bryson had quite a bit of plastic surgery.”

Our plates arrived and I waited until the waiter left before commenting on this newest tidbit.

“You mean he had a face lift? I guess even men feel their age and want to look good.”

John shook his head. “No, it wasn’t recent and it wasn’t cosmetic. It was some major stuff. He had a nose job, and it looks like his chin was reshaped.”

“Maybe he was in a terrible accident,” I said. Another thing I planned on asking Sophie.

“And he was eighty-nine. I gotta tell you,” John said, as he blew on a hot ravioli, “the guy didn’t look that old to me.”

“I’m sure the plastic surgery helped with that,” I said, as I rolled around some ideas about botoxing a few lines in my forehead.

“Maybe. This is really good. I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” my husband said, as he speared another ravioli with his fork.

I munched on another piece of bread while I thought about Humphrey Bryson’s surgery. And I had to wonder, was the man just vain or was there something more sinister behind his face alterations?

I stopped by my office because I didn’t think Sophie Bryson would appreciate my coming by at seven-thirty in the morning. To my surprise Sam was already there and I found her in the kitchen making a pot of coffee.

“You’re here early,” I said, as I reached behind her and grabbed the tea kettle.

“Michael’s taking the kids to school and I have a proposal to finish.”

“Need any help?” I asked.

“Nope. Millie should be in shortly and we’ve got it under control.”

“Sam, look at me. Listen, I feel fine so I don’t want you treating me differently. Nothing’s going to change and I’m fully capable of pulling my own weight. Unless of course, someone gets killed then you’re on your own.” I gave her a smile.

“Yeah, okay. Since mom started her treatment years ago, we can’t even tell anymore that she has RA. It’s not like it was when we were kids. That was horrible.”

I thought back to times when my mother was so sore she could hardly get out of bed. Sam and I would make her lunch and bring it to her, and while we tried to act all grown up, it was scary to see our own mother so incapacitated. But things had progressed and even though I wasn’t too keen on all the crap I had to put into my body, it was better than the alternative.

“I’ll treat you like normal if you just let me give you a little gift I picked up last night,” my sister continued.

I waited while she went to her office and then handed me a bag from Target. “This is nice,” I said, pulling out one of those rubber things you use to open jars.

“It’s for your M&M’s jar. Just in case you’re having a bad day. You’ll still need to open it.”

I nodded. “Very thoughtful. And you’re right, getting into the candy jar is very important.”

We took our mugs and went to my office and I gave Sam the rosary beads for Kendall.

“Thank you. She’ll love them. Seymour does great work. So how’s the investigation going?”

“Well, John told me Humphrey had extensive plastic surgery.”

“Really? Interesting. What kind? Botox? Eye lift? Nose job?”

“No, more like reconstructive surgery. Major stuff,” I said.

“Maybe he threatened to sue the plastic surgeon so the doc killed him. Any of the players a surgeon?” my sister asked.

“Not that I know of. And besides, whatever he had done, it was a long time ago.”

“So why is it important?”

“It’s probably not. But that doesn’t mean I’m not curious and you can bet I’ll ask the widow about it. I did find out Mrs. Bryson was having her husband followed, he found out and turned the tables having the private detective do some investigating for him on a few women from the pickleball team.”

“Okay, again, interesting, but how does that help?” my sister asked.

“Maybe the PI did a double cross of his own somehow by telling Mrs. Bryson that Humphrey was on to her. Or maybe he went to the other women Humphrey was spying on, told them what Humphrey was up to and they in turn told their husbands, who, by the way just happened to be at the supper. You know, I like it. I can see Lester Holt or Sid Dupre being so revolted by what Humphrey did to their wives down at the beach that they felt a need to shove a pickle down his throat.” I sat back looking pleased with my theory and decided to reward myself with some M&M’s.

“Or,” my sister said, sounding more interested than she was a minute ago, “the PI finds out even more dirt on Humphrey and blackmails him. Then he showed up at the Saturday supper to pick up a payment, but Humphrey refused to fork over any more money, they got into a fight and pickle down the throat.”

“I suppose, but no one mentioned seeing Terry Roder at the supper and he used to play pickleball, so people would recognize him. And Meme and I didn’t see him come in.”

Sam shrugged. “It’s just a theory. Maybe there’s another door and he snuck in.”

“I gotta tell ya, those were some powerful pickles,” I said, making a puckering face. “Good, but deadly. Mrs. Kaufman, she’s the lady from the deli, used her special recipe, which includes dried hot pepper. Whoever did it really got their revenge using one of those pickles.”

“That had to hurt,” my sister winced. “Poor guy.”

“Yeah, poor lying, cheating, bullying bastard.”

Sophie Bryson was just coming back from a walk on the beach when I drove up. If I was ever lucky enough to have a house on the ocean, I like to think I would take advantage of it and go for long walks every day. I couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of doing so.

“Good morning, Alex,” she called to me as she made her way over a mound of snow pushed along the driveway. “Come on in. Do you like hot chocolate?”

I followed Sophie into the house thinking for a woman her age and so frail looking, she was obviously very strong and kept in good shape. But was she strong enough to hold her husband down? She had several inches on the man, but he had had quite a few pounds on her. Of course, she could have had some help.

“A cup of hot chocolate sounds wonderful.” I followed her into the kitchen where we took off out coats and draped them over a chair by the table.

Sophie pulled out a large bar of dark chocolate from the pantry and put a small pan on the stove. I watched, fascinated, while she added the chocolate, a bit of sugar and a dash of salt. Then she stirred in some milk and lots of half & half, and deftly blended it all together. When it was done she poured it into two mugs, added some whipped cream and handed me a cup.

“Gee, I was expecting you to tear open a couple of those instant packets and add some hot water. This looks, well, almost decadent.”

She smiled and nodded at my mug. “Try it.”

I took a sip and made a mental note to pick up some cream and a few pounds of rich chocolate on my way home. “Okay. I’m never having instant again.” I took another sip savoring the creamy chocolate taste.

“Humphrey loved it this way. Very European. He told me his mother always made it from the best chocolate available. She was English. A cold woman, but she evidently made a great cup of cocoa.”

The stuff was so good I felt guilty I was here to ask her why she lied to me, but she wanted my help finding Humphrey’s killer and I couldn’t let the woman sway me with a bar of chocolate, no matter how dark and rich.

Sophie took a seat on the other bar stool next to me and opened up the conversation. “What have you found out so far?”

“A few things. You were right. The list of suspects is growing.” I put my mug down. “Mrs. Bryson. Sophie. You told me you hired Terry Roder a month ago, but he said you hired him several months ago.”

“Did I? I must have been confused. Yes, I believe I did hire him a while back. Is it important?”

I watched the woman over the rim of my cup. I was so used to my grandmother and her friends who were all so much fun and at times amusingly scattered-brained. I guess I had a tendency to look at the elderly as being fun-loving and harmless. But Sophie Bryson was calculating and, despite living with a bully, I don’t think she put up with much.

“I don’t know if it’s important or not at this point, but I was curious why you were having your husband followed long before he told you he wanted a divorce.”

She reached across the counter to the stove and took the pan from the burner. “More?” I shook my head and she poured the rest into her cup. “Humphrey was always up to something. The truth is I planned on divorcing him before he presented the same decision to me. I wanted to have my ducks in a row.”

“Terry Roder was two-timing you. Humphrey knew he was being followed and paid Mr. Roder to feed you a line of garbage.”

Sophie gave me a knowing smile. “Of course Humphrey knew. That’s why I hired Terry in the first place. The man’s an idiot. I knew he would get caught and then I could send in a real private investigator.”

“You mean you had someone else follow Humphrey?”

“Alex, I lived with the man for most of my life. I knew all of his tricks. I just wanted them well documented so when the war began, I would have plenty of ammunition to get my fair share. I hired a woman. She’s about fifty-five, been doing this for a long time, and I figured Humph would never take a woman for a PI and I was right. He had no idea.”

“What exactly did Mr. Bryson do all day? I mean, did he work?”

Sophie shook her head, dislodging a bobby-pin. A piece of hair fell to her cheek and she pushed it over her ear. “We own a few gas stations with those quick marts, a printing shop, a small apartment complex along with some other property, and a newsstand in New Haven and one in Bridgeport. That’s the legitimate stuff. Humph always had a knack for investing and I know our money is well placed in stocks, etc. But he was good at keeping secrets as well. The truth is, he probably has tons of money hidden and I may never know our true worth, but my half of the stuff I do know about will do me very well. Very well indeed. That’s all I wanted, my fair share. But of course if I found he had other business ventures I knew nothing about, all the better. Knowing Humph the way I did, he would fight me tooth and nail on everything. Hence the PI.”

“Would you mind if I contacted her?”

Sophie walked down the hall and came back with a business card for the new PI.

“One more thing before I leave. Did Humphrey ever mention the fact he had plastic surgery?”

“Humphrey didn’t care about his looks, well, except for the fact he was short. He really had a bad case of short-man syndrome. I’m sure that’s part of the reason he turned out to be such a bully. But why would he have plastic surgery? They couldn’t make him taller.”

“I don’t think it was cosmetic. Was he ever in an accident?”

Sophie shook her head again. “No. Not that I know of. I’ve been with the man for over fifty years. I would know if he was in an accident that required surgery. You must be wrong.”

I was about to mention the information came straight from the police, but figured they could tell her about it. I had no doubt Sophie Bryson would have gotten exactly what she wanted if a divorce had come to pass, but I also had a feeling that despite her claims of knowing her husband well, Humphrey Bryson had been able to hide some things from his wife. And I had to wonder, was it their discovery that had caused her to kill the man?

Marie Dupre was in a frantic state when I arrived on her door step. She pulled me in by my coat sleeve and then firmly shut the door and threw the dead bolt.

“Mrs. Dupre, are you okay?” I asked. “You’re acting like someone is after you.”

I followed her into a warm living room where small flames flickered in the fireplace. Marie absently placed another log on top and turned to me.

“It’s nothing. Really. Nothing. Just someone who’s been annoying me.”

“Maybe you should call the police?” I suggested.

“No! Don’t do that. He’s gone now.”

She took the same chair her husband had used the first time I was here and kept balling her hands into fists.

“Mrs. Dupre, clearly something is wrong. Is there anything I can do?”

She took a deep breath. “Maybe. I mean, you do this sort of thing for a living, right? You’re helping Sophie.” She leaned forward in the chair. “I’m being blackmailed. He was just here. He keeps coming back for more money and I don’t know what to do. How many times can I tell Sid I need some cash to go shopping?”

Something clicked in my head. “Is Terry Roder blackmailing you?” Of course he was. The little weasel lied to me.

Mrs. Dupre looked like she was going to have a stroke. “Oh my God! How do you know that?”

I sighed. “Just a lucky guess. Sophie hired him to follow Humphrey and he saw the two of you together and then Humphrey asked Mr. Roder to get some dirt on you.”