Pickled (An Alex Harris Mystery) (22 page)

Marie had been strangely quiet through this exchange. “Marie, do you know anything about this?” I asked.

“Yes. Well, no, not really. I heard Humph say he had some major funds coming his way a couple of weeks ago. It was at one of the games and he was bragging to a few guys about money again, which he did often, so I paid no attention to it really. But I did hear him say good things come to those who wait. I don’t see how this relates to art, though.”

I shrugged. “Neither do I.” But I did. Humphrey must have been talking about the money he hoped to get once Alastair Hildebrand sold his items.

Sid seemed sufficiently calmed down to the point where I felt I could leave the two spouses together to talk things out without Sid having a stroke. I said my good-byes and walked out to my car.

So what had I just learned? I believed Sid truly had no idea what Marie had been up to, and if he didn’t know, there would be no reason for him to want Humphrey dead, except for the snow plow debacle, but was that really a good enough motive to shove a pickle down Humphrey’s throat? Seemed to be more trouble than it was worth. A person certainly wouldn’t be still for something like that, but then I remembered the muscle relaxant. Did Humphrey take them himself? Did someone bring them along for the sole purpose of drugging him before they killed him? Or did the killer just happened to know the man took relaxants and would be easy to hold down? And was the pickle always the preferred mode of death, or was it just handy?

I pulled my car out onto the road and turned right. The sky was dark and ominous looking and more snow was expected. I liked the stuff, but I wasn’t too keen on driving in it. I still had a few people to speak with and, if I hurried, maybe I could get everything done before the next storm hit. I made another right at the next corner and headed to the home of the lovely Suzanne.

Like Nicole Kidman, I had a feeling the sun never touched the face of Suzanne Holt. She probably had gallons of sun block under her bathroom sink and a great supply of hats. She answered her door dressed in a pair of black leggings, an over-sized bulky white sweater, and a pair of black Ugg boots. She wasn’t as tall as I remembered, but then she wasn’t wearing spiked heels today. Her skin was as white as the first day I had seen her, but today the dark hair fell softly around her face.

She stared at me blankly, and then recognition dawned and she stiffened.

“How did you know where I live?”

“Mr. Hildebrand mentioned you live in Pirates Cove and then I saw you with your mother the other day when you came to pick her up at the Community Center.”

“You know my mother?” Suzanne seemed to relax.

“I only met her recently, since I’ve been looking into the death of Humphrey Bryson. I didn’t know she was your mother until you came to the center. May I come in?”

Suzanne lived in an adorable cottage on a tree-lined street only a couple of blocks from the Sound.

“Have a seat.” She saw me looking around the room. “This used to be a guest house for the people who own the large home next door, but they hardly ever have guests anymore so they rented it to me. Can I offer you something to drink?”

A large china tea pot sat on a coffee table along with a mug in the same pattern. “I’ll take some tea if there’s any left.”

I looked around the cottage again, which turned out to be one very large room Suzanne had artfully divided using shelving units. I could see a cozy bedroom with a bed covered in a thick white duvet. The living portion was filled with a small forest green sectional sofa forming an
L
and a chair in a bright chintz pattern. There were several lovely water colors hung on the pale gray walls and a large oil that looked like a frenzied toddler colored it. The room was lovely in a soft, girly way, which didn’t seem to fit with the Suzanne from the gallery who wore a severe suit and tight bun. I spied a door, which I assumed was the bathroom, and another that was probably a closet. The kitchen was the only modern area, with shiny new appliances and a tiny café table with two chairs.

Suzanne poured a cup of tea into a mug she fetched from a small china cabinet and then went to the kitchen and came back with a plate of muffins and scones.

“Has your mother told you anything about my investigation?”

Suzanne shook her head. “No. Well, yes, actually, but I didn’t realize it was the same thing. She told me a man from her pickleball group was killed. I had no idea it was the same man who came to the gallery. That’s who we’re talking about, correct?”

“Yes. Humphrey Bryson. Mr. Hildebrand told me Humphrey came into your gallery and wanted you to sell some items for him.”

Suzanne put her mug down on the table. “Mm. That’s correct. We didn’t get a good feeling from him so Alastair told him we didn’t do that sort of thing. I mean, we do, of course. We sell art and have showings for the public and we usually hold a vernissage, a reception of sorts, for our private clients prior to the grand opening, and of course we get our commission on sold works, but that’s not what Mr. Bryson wanted. As a matter of fact, he never told us his name. He didn’t want to have a showing or a vernissage, he wanted us to find him a buyer, a
certain
kind of buyer.”

“A certain kind of buyer? What does that mean?” I asked, while picking at the top of a chocolate chip muffin. There’s nothing better than a crispy muffin top, and this one must have come from a very expensive bakery.

“From his attitude, Alastair and I assumed whatever it was he wanted sold, it probably didn’t belong to him rightfully. There’s no other reason for him to be, well, clandestine about the whole thing. We told him to leave, but he said he would be back.”

“But he never came back?”

Suzanne nodded her head quickly. “One more time, with some threats. We got rid of him again, but not before he smiled this sinister smile. Every time we heard the front door open we held our breath, but we never saw him again, and then you came in with his picture and said he was dead.”

“What kind of threats?” I asked. Of course I already knew, but I wanted to see how much of Mr. Hildebrand’s past Suzanne knew.

Suzanne took a long sip of tea. “You’ve talked with Alastair and I believe he told you everything, so I don’t feel like I’m breaking a confidence, but still, I don’t feel right saying these things. He’s a good man. He’s smart and we have a business that’s starting to take off. But,” she took a deep breath, “he got caught up in some unsavory ventures and he paid a hefty price. This was in London, a long time ago. Somehow that man found out and threatened to bring it all up again.”

“And if Mr. Bryson had, do you think it would have done irreparable harm to your gallery?”

Suzanne shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not, who knows. Alastair and I together know a lot about art. We’re good at what we do. It’s not just hanging stuff on walls. Alastair especially has a knack for group exhibitions, pairing artists that complement each other, or putting together specialized shows such as an ethnically focused exhibition. A lot of artists have huge portfolios and we help them put together the best possible grouping. And we’re very good at promotion before the event. I design all our promotional materials and get it printed and distributed, and help the artist pick a name for the exhibition. It’s a lot of work.”

“So there’d be a lot to lose if Humphrey Bryson started talking.”

Light seemed to dawn in Suzanne’s hazel eyes. “Certainly you don’t think either one of us had anything to do with his death. How could we? We had no idea who the man was until you showed up. I know I’m not a killer and Alastair is a kind and gentle man. He could never do anything like that. Is this why you were talking to my mother? Surely you don’t think she or my father had anything to do with it either.” Suzanne looked aghast.

Phyllis had indicated her daughter didn’t know the full impact of her drinking problem, or at least the DUI, and I didn’t want to be the one to provide that sort of information, so I just smiled and said, “Your parents were at the pickleball supper the night Humphrey was killed. I’m speaking with everyone who attended in case someone saw something, that’s all.”

“Oh, okay. I can understand that. All my mom told me was some guy got killed, but she was gone before anyone found him. I never told my parents about the visit from this Mr. Bryson to my gallery. That’s why I never put the two things together. They worry about me traveling into the city, and if they knew Alastair and I had been threatened, well, there’s no reason to add to their worries.”

“Worries? Are your parents worried about something?”

“My mom’s been a bit preoccupied lately, but she’s trying to get her tutoring business off the ground, and I think it’s more work than she expected. She’s coming over later so I can help her with some promotional material she can pass out and put up on the various social media sites.”

Clearly Phyllis had not shared with her daughter any of the details about her evenings at the beach with the repugnant Humphrey. Or maybe she had and Suzanne was a really good liar. But the problem I had with Suzanne killing Humphrey, either to stop the threats to her gallery or to avenger her mother, was that Suzanne wasn’t very big. I didn’t see any way she could have held Humphrey down, even with muscle relaxers running through his body. She could have had help from Mr. Hildebrand, but that would be two total strangers coming into the hall. The chance of them going unnoticed by at least one person was slim. But then I thought of Lester. The two women in his life were being tormented by a bully, and a bully with whom Lester had had a few issues. Maybe Lester wanted to protect his wife and daughter and took the opportunity of a venue filled with a lot of people and chaos to eliminate the threat.

I had no way of proving this and I wasn’t about to ask Suzanne questions that might tip her off to her mother’s problems, so I left it at that for now and moved on to the robbery at the Bryson home.

“Before I go, there was one more thing. Last night the Bryson home was burglarized.”

Suzanne wiped some muffin crumbs from her mouth with a paper napkin. “Someone probably heard on the news that he died. The same thing happened to a friend of mine. Her uncle died and while everyone was at the funeral, they robbed his home.”

“No, this was specific. The robber, or robbers, took two items, a small painting and a vase.”

“Are you thinking these are the same items he wanted to sell?” Suzanne asked.

“You tell me.”

Suzanne clasped her hands on her lap. “He never said, but I can tell you it was more than two things.”

I sat up straighter. “Really? How do you know that?”

“Because of what he said. If he just had a painting and a vase, he would have said just that,
I have a painting and a vase I want sold
. But he didn’t. He told us he had a bunch of stuff. Stuff! That’s how he referred to art.” Suzanne shook her head in dismay.

I left Suzanne, wondering if she had misinterpreted Humphrey’s description, or were there really more pieces than just the vase and the small painting? And if so, where the heck were they?

I wanted to talk with Lester, but not with Phyllis around, and I had no idea when she would be going over to Suzanne’s.

I was cold and tired from staying up all night and would like nothing better than to be home with a big bowl of soup and some crusty bread. I really don’t know how I get myself caught up in this stuff. All I wanted to do was sell some calendars of hot old guys to women who found man boobs a turn on, but somehow I ended up investigating a murder of someone I had never even met. But I also knew I wouldn’t give up until the killer was caught.

I looked at my watch and figured I’d give Phyllis an hour before she headed over to Suzanne’s. In the meantime I wanted to talk with Howard again. He was from the Chicago area and perhaps had crossed paths with Humphrey before. The snow was starting to come down again, albeit very lightly, but I still didn’t relish driving. The turnpike was clear, and so with resigned resolve, I drove up the onramp and made my way back to Indian Cove.

I found Howard thirty minutes later sitting by his computer with a pot of tea, pinning pictures on Pinterest.

“Meme told me about it and I didn’t see the attraction at first, but you’d be surprised how many pictures there are of trains and stations and bridges and clocks.”

I, too, was hooked on the site. Like Howard, I had been reluctant to get involved with another social site, but quickly got hooked pinning all things related to tea, England, and travel in general. It was like scrapbooking but without all the fuss.

“Howard, you never told me you were from Chicago?”

“You never asked?”

Okay, so he had me there.

“And I’m not. I grew up in Cicero.”

“Did you know Humphrey lived in Chicago many years ago?”

“I believe I may have heard him mention it at some point.”

“And?”

“And what? I’m not the chit-chatty type, and I certainly wouldn’t encourage banter of a personal nature with that oaf.”

“So you never ran into him back in the day?”

“Alex, Chicago is a big place and I didn’t live there anyway. Why on earth would you think I knew Humphrey back then?” Howard got a serious look on his face and his lips pursed into a thin line. “Am I on your list? I know about your suspect list, young lady, and I can’t believe you have me on it.”

I ran a hand through my hair then tugged at the scarf around my neck. Howard obviously liked a warm house. “Okay, look, I’m grasping at straws here. I can’t fit anything together so I thought maybe something in Humphrey’s past might be a connection.”

“And we both lived in Illinois around the same time, ergo I killed him.” Howard sat there, ramrod straight, his prissy pout in place and I had to smile.

“Well, when you say it like that, I see how silly it is. I’m sorry, Howard, to have barged in here and disrupted your Sunday.” I stood up to leave.

Howard got up and followed me to the front door. “It’s okay. Meme says this one’s got you stumped. But you may not be too far off base with your theory about his past coming back to haunt him.