Death of the Pickle King Read online

  Table of Contents

  Other writings by Marlene Chabot

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  and

  “Have a pickle,” she said.”

  ~1~

  ~2~

  ~3~

  ~4~

  ~5~

  ~6~

  ~7~

  ~8~

  ~9~

  ~10~

  ~11~

  ~12~

  ~13~

  ~14~

  ~15~

  ~16~

  ~17~

  ~18~

  ~19~

  ~20~

  ~21~

  ~22~

  ~23~

  ~24~

  ~25~

  ~26~

  ~27~

  ~28~

  ~29~

  ~30~

  ~31~

  ~32~

  ~33~

  ~34~

  ~35~

  ~36~

  ~37~

  ~38~

  ~39~

  ~40~

  ~41~

  ~42~

  ~43~

  ~44~

  ~45~

  ~46~

  ~47~

  ~48~

  ~49~

  ~50~

  ~51~

  ~52~

  ~53~

  ~54~

  ~55~

  ~56~

  ~57~

  ~58~

  ~59~

  Epilogue

  My Great Aunt Mame’s Refrigerator Pickles

  Annette’s Solar Pickles

  Sweet Dommie Pickles

  Betty’s Pickled Veggies

  Mike’s Pickled Northern

  Bart’s Pickled Brussels Sprouts

  Suzie’s Pickled Eggs

  Barbara’s Crystal Pickles

  Jeanne’s Dilled Green Beans

  Book Club Questions | Death of the Pickle King

  Other writings by Marlene Chabot

  NOVELS

  Detecting the Fatal Connection

  (Previously listed as China Connection)

  Death At The Bar X Ranch

  Death of the Naked Lady

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my family, fans, and all those who suffer from any form of mental or physical disability. No matter who you are or your station in life, we are all still part of this great world called planet earth.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I wish to express my gratitude to the following people:

  Rod Prochaska, VP of Operations for Gedney Foods Company in Chaska, Minnesota, who was so generous with his time during my tour of the plant.

  and

  Joyce Young, John Chabot, and Amy Chabot for editing this novel.

  Dear Readers,

  Ever since the first novel in the Mary Malone Series was released, I’ve wanted to follow up at some point with Gertie Nash finally persuading Mary to help her Cousin Butch prove his innocence pertaining to the theft of Hickleman Pickle Company’s secret pickle recipes. In Death of the Pickle King Gertie gets her way after Butch is once again being blamed for something much graver involving the plant, the murder of owner Don Hickleman.

  Until I started research on making dill and sweet pickles and relishes out of cucumbers, the only thing I knew about pickles was that I liked eating them and making my own batches of refrigerator pickles from a recipe my Great Aunt Mame shared with me years ago.

  Cucumbers, which originally came from Southern Asia, were fed in pickle form to Roman troops many centuries ago. During that time period it was widely believed that eating cucumbers prepared this particular way would give soldiers physical strength. Today, in the 21st century, the benefits of eating pickled vegetables are still touted via the media. It’s been said athletes have drunk pickle juice to counteract dehydration. But scientists have also proven pickled vegetables are more nutritious for you and makes food easier to digest.

  It’s a good thing our country has abundant resources for cucumbers since more than 9 lbs. of pickles are consumed per person annually. Two of the major countries to import cucumbers to the U.S. are Mexico and Canada.

  If you haven’t taken part in the latest pickle-flavored food and beverage craze yet, the following is a small sampling of what you can find in the market place: ice cream, chips, popcorn, candy canes, hard candies, lollipops, almonds, mints, gum, juice, vodka, beer, soda, and sunflower seeds.

  For those of you who simply prefer having plenty of bread and butter chips, dill pickles or other pickled veggies and fruit on hand, one of the recipes found at the back of this novel is sure to please your taste buds. Enjoy.

  “Have a pickle,” she said.”

  I questioned the offer.

  It wasn’t exactly chocolate.

  “Ah, no thanks, I don’t care for any.”

  “Have a pickle,” she insisted more forcefully.

  I took one.

  Little did I know how significant eating one dill pickle could be.

  ~1~

  Day 1

  I flung up my hands. “I’ve made a royal mess of things,” I told a fellow Foley resident while we waited for the elevator to takeoff for the fourth floor where we both reside. Even though it was the Monday after Thanksgiving, the smell of turkey remains still lingered in the stuffy elevator. My stomach growled.

  Margaret Grimshaw, a tiny grandmotherly woman with an indestructible donut bun hairstyle was caught off guard when the lazy elevator finally jerked into motion. In order to resume her straight-as-an-arrow stance in her preferred pink Isotoner slippers, the woman drew her feet closer together and pushed one heavily-veined hand against the nearest elevator wall while the other remained clamped around the mail she’d just collected.

  “How so, Mary?” she politely questioned. “Surely whatever it is it can’t be that awful.”

  My arms dropped. I pressed my shoulder blades against the cold, grey sterile wall opposite the door. “I’m afraid it is.” If I had my way, I’d bypass any explanation. But I knew in my heart I couldn’t simply slide my remark under the damp black rubber rug resting beneath our feet. It wouldn’t be right. You see, Margaret, who has been a resident of the Foley forever, knows the relative from whom I’m subletting the apartment quite well—my brother Matt, a private investigator. “If the huge mess isn’t cleared up by the time Matt comes back from Ireland in three weeks, he’s going to raise one heck of a stink.”

  The elderly woman bowed her dainty head. “Oh, dear, what’s Zoe done now?”

  Margaret was referring to my widowed aunt who has lived with me since I moved into the Foley this past May. She’s either redecorating the living room space where she sleeps or destroying the kitchen with strange inedible concoctions she’s created. “Actually, Auntie’s not totally to blame this time.”

  “She’s not?”

  “No. And I can’t hide what all Matt might find: his reliable dog Gracie missing, a glitzy-glam Vegas style lounge living room, Aunt Zoe and I still dwelling here, and me probably smackdab in the middle of another case I have no right to be involved with.”

  The woman of Italian heritage pressed her silver wire-rimmed glasses closer to her face and sighed. “Che Cosa? Gracie’s missing?”

  I nodded.

  “Since when?” she inquired.

  “Saturday,” I replied, inspecting what the thinly-framed, impeccably dressed woman standing next to me wore. Her nicely draped navy-colored cotton pants and matching long-sleeved silk top fit her perfectly. If only I could be a size eight again. I tried sucking in my extended tummy; it wouldn’t budge. There’s no getting around it. I had to stop stuffing my bottomless pit with the wrong foods, especially sweets and snacks. “Okay, okay, pizza, popcorn
, and double cheeseburgers belong on the list too, but that’s it. Honest.”

  Margaret’s almost invisible eyebrows arched significantly. “Why hadn’t you told me about Gracie sooner? I could’ve asked friends of mine who live near the Foley to keep an eye out for her.”

  “I meant to, but you weren’t around this weekend.”

  “Well, I can see where the loss of a dog would be a lot to take in for anyone, including your brother.” She tapped her arthritic fingers to her wrinkled lips. “Dear, why don’t you drop by later after your evening meal. I’m sure we can come up with sensible solutions to your problems while we enjoy a scrumptious dessert I made.”

  Did she say dessert? It’s tough resisting an invitation including sweets. Sugar added to anything entering this gal’s stomach soothes jumbled nerves and instantly dissolves problems weighing on my mind, unless, of course, Aunt Zoe’s mixed up in it somehow. I licked my chapped lips and tossed aside previous notions of fitting into clothing eight sizes smaller. Well, it wasn’t hard to do. With only oddball jobs being offered to me lately, I can’t afford a new wardrobe anyway. And besides, I don’t like to turn the elderly woman down. She’d feel bad. Accepting the invitation is the best thing for both of us. It’s a win-win situation. Not only does Margaret get company, but I get to sample the wonderful things she’s made. Hmm? What could she possibly have created this time?

  The elevator dinged for our stop sooner than I anticipated; leaving me no time to envision what dilly of a dessert would be served later. I did however manage to give Margaret a quick hug before the door slid open and we went our separate ways. “Thanks for the invite. Just knowing I can use you as a sounding board makes me feel less stressed already.”

  The ninety-year-old woman stepped off the elevator in slow motion. “Good,” she said over her shoulder as she headed towards her door, “I’m glad I can help,” and then she slipped into her apartment.

  Thunderous steps approached me the second I poked the key in the lock. Only one Foley resident made that much noise. I had to get inside pronto. I struggled with the lock. Nothing happened. Darn! Of all times for me to get stuck in this narrow passageway.

  “Mary. Wait,” Gertie Nash yelled. “I’ve got to speak with you. It’s an emergency.”

  What now? I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with stagnant air consisting of heavy cologne, a mixture of perfumes, and hot tamales. Hopefully her emergency isn’t about her cousin, Butch the ex-con, again. I’m tired of being told he wants to speak to me. I spun around. “What’s happened, Gertie?”

  The 200 pound woman with Star Wars’ tattoos branching out along every visible part of her body stepped forward. “You’ve gotta help. Butch is in deep doo doo.”

  “What’s he done?”

  She hesitated for a split-second. Her typically ruddy face looked pasty.

  Concerned for her welfare, I clutched her arm for a moment. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Gertie gulped, “I just had to catch my breath. I’m not used to chasing anyone down the hall.”

  Now that the woman was almost in my face, I prayed her words about Butch’s situation would be brief. Unfortunately, my requests aren’t always answered the way I want. Before Gertie could share anything, Aunt Zoe flung the apartment door open. “What’s all the fuss out there?” she inquired, blocking me from entering with one hand while the other held a half-eaten dill pickle. “I heard shouting.”

  I pointed to the fifty-something woman standing off to the side, who loves to coordinate her hair color with every outfit in her wardrobe. Magenta appears to be the color pick of the day. Tomorrow it’ll probably be tomato.

  My aunt looked beyond me and focused on Gertie. “She doesn’t look well, Mary. Bring her in,” she ordered, “Have her sit a spell.”

  Not a good idea. I usually regret following my aunt’s suggestion, but I did it anyway. I can’t help it if I’m a glutton for punishment.

  After I brought Gertie into the apartment, Aunt Zoe took a bite of her pickle and then scurried off to the kitchen without any explanation, leaving me high and dry to care for the comfort of our uninvited visitor.

  As it turned out, Gertie didn’t need any looking after. When she entered the living room, she headed straight to the leather couch Aunt Zoe had painstakingly draped with two yards of neon green colored fabric, having at least six dozen silver sequins sewn to it. With Gertie positioned as she was, I realized all that was left for a genuine Vegas Strip effect was to wrap her with a string of miniature Christmas lights, the clear type.

  Since Gertie claimed the Vegas glammed piece of furniture I made do with the uncovered La-Z-Boy, which happened to be the most comfortable furniture in the room according to my garage sale standards.

  A few seconds after we settled in, Aunt Zoe returned carrying a glass of water. “Sorry you caught me eating, Gertie. I’d just gotten my mid-morning snack out when I heard the commotion in the hall.”

  “No need to explain,” she said. “I’m a big pickle lover too.”

  “Well, right now I think you need liquid more than a pickle, but I can get you one later. We’ve got plenty.” She handed Gertie the glass of water. “Here you go. Dr. Oz says to drink plenty of water when you’re dehydrated.”

  The woman smiled weakly. “Thanks, Zoe.” She took a couple sips of the clear liquid offered her. Then she rested the glass on the smooth, dark wood coffee table in front of her, and said, “I’m sorry to be such a pest, Mary, but I don’t know who else to turn to. Butch has been arrested.”

  Aunt Zoe strolled over to the couch, sat, and gave Gertie a sympathetic pat on the hand. “There, there, Gertie. Things will get better.”

  Great. She’ll never leave. “What did he do?” I queried trying to sound like an interested party even though I wasn’t.

  Gertie slapped her thighs that bulged noticeably due to the too small Skinny jeans she wore. “Nothing at all. Butch is as innocent as a newborn.”

  Not wanting to insult the woman, I choked back a laugh. Any person who has been convicted of a crime isn’t as innocent as a baby in my book and probably not in a cop’s either. “Come on, Gertie, you know people don’t get locked up for nothing. He had to have done something to warrant his arrest.”

  The woman remained silent as she fussed with the glass of water she’d set on the table. That worried me. She loved to talk. Could she be spinning a trap?

  If I was as lucky as a leprechaun, she’d walk out of here without ever expanding on Butch’s problem. Sadly, that’s unlikely. I’m extremely unlucky. I can’t even win money playing one lousy bingo card at a church event. Besides, previous encounters with Gertie demonstrated she doesn’t give up easily. And at this moment she’s holding me captive in my own home.

  ~2~

  Our unwanted guest clutched her inked-elbows and leaned forward, signifying her readiness to spill her guts. “Well, this morning,” she began, “an employee at Hickleman’s Pickle Plant discovered a body floating face down in one of the pickle vats. And of course, rumors started flying at once. Butch had to be the killer. He was seen in the plant a couple nights ago having a heated argument with the dead man.”

  “Oh, dear! Have they identified the body yet?” Aunt Zoe inquired.

  Gertie rested her hand on her flat forehead. “It was old man Hickleman himself.”

  “What? The pickle king is dead? No. It can’t be,” Aunt Zoe shook her spiked red head. “It’s got to be a mistake. I just saw him in a pickle commercial this morning on TV, the Crunch a Bunch one.”

  Gertie released a sigh. “Unfortunately he is.”

  “What’s going to happen to my favorite pickles now?” Aunt Zoe whined. “Shelf them? Mr. Hickleman has no heirs to his throne as far as I know.”

  Who but Aunt Zoe would carry that little tidbit around in her head? A pickle lover since knee-high to a grasshopper, she’s vigilant about keeping abreast of any news dealing with the pickling industry.

  “I’m not sure if that’s true about h
is not having any heirs,” Gertie said.

  Aunt Zoe got excited. “You mean there is someone to take over?”

  “Well, this is according to Butch of course, but years ago he heard a rumor that Hickleman had an illegitimate child.”

  “Forget about this so-called illegitimate child,” I said. “Back up a bit, Gertie. Didn’t you tell me the big shots running the pickle company refused to allow your cousin to step foot in the plant after his last incarceration?”

  “That’s right.” Gertie straightened her large frame on the leather couch. “And Butch didn’t intend to go inside the building the other day. When he went to the plant, all he planned to do was catch the marketing manager when he left work for the day, so he could ask him why his prize winning county fair pickles weren’t being sold in our community, like winners from previous years.

  “I blame the security guard for the mess my cousin is in. Why, if he hadn’t spotted Butch and ushered him into old man Hickleman’s office, no one would’ve heard any angry words uttered between Hickleman and Butch.”

  “That’s all the police have to go on, Butch arguing with the dead man? Surely there are other people at the plant who had it in for the owner besides your brother.”

  “You don’t understand. It was old man Hickleman who had Butch arrested the last time.”

  I drew a finger across my bottom lip. “Hmm? What specific charge did Hickleman bring against Butch then?”

  Gertie dug a Kleenex out of her pant pocket and dabbed her sweaty forehead. “He accused him of stealing company recipes.”

  “Ah, I get it now. Due to Butch’s past record, everyone, including the police, is determined to feed him to the lions, disregarding any other possible suspects in Hickleman’s death.”

  “Exactly,” Gertie muttered, crumpling the used Kleenex in her shaky hand.

  Aunt Zoe scrambled to her feet. “Mary, you’ve got to help Butch,” she pleaded. “He already went to jail once for a crime he says he didn’t commit. You can’t let him be charged with another.”