Read Pickled (An Alex Harris Mystery) for Free Online Page B

them being looked after by a drunk? Not that I am, but people hear you did something and they never forget.”
    “So as long as you kept meeting Humphrey by the beach he would keep your secret?”
    “Yes, that’s what he said. Listen, I didn’t want to meet him, I didn’t. You have no idea how repugnant the man is—was—but what other choice did I have?”
    I left Phyllis Holt to get ready for her evening and as I drove home to Indian Cove I had two thoughts—Humphrey Bryson was definitely a pig and Mr. and Mrs. Holt were now firmly on my list of suspects.

 
     
     
Chapter 11
     
     
    Phyllis Holt was a fool if she thought Humphrey wouldn’t have brought up her drinking problem, past or not. If Lester Holt had looked like he might be capable of getting even one vote, Humphrey would have dredged up all the Holt dirt he could find. Mrs. Holt didn’t strike me as a stupid woman so I had to conclude she figured this out as well, and if she did, she might also conclude killing the man was the only way out.
    I didn’t understand these people. Why would both Marie Dupre and Phyllis Holt—who both seemed truly repulsed by the man—agree to meet him over and over? I had no answer except people do strange things—especially when they have secrets to hide.
    You needed to put bullies in their place, at least I would have. And Humphrey was old. I was lucky enough to be a mentally strong person, but others were not, and I felt sure Humphrey Bryson had finely tuned his radar to hone in on the weak. But still. I would never have agreed to meet the man down at the beach in the first place, and if I had done on some momentary lack of reasonable thought, the second the man tried to touch me would be his last second on this earth. So is that what finally did him in—one too many touchy-feely encounters?
    I continued my drive along the narrow two-lane coast road, made even more treacherous by the snow pushed along the sides, until I was back in my own town. The day was getting dark and it was a Sunday. Businesses pretty much closed shop early on Sundays, especially in the dead of winter, in Indian Cove and the small surrounding towns, but I thought I would chance a stop at the German deli just to see if they were still open.
    The German Delicatessen had only been in Indian Cove for a little over a year, having relocated from Long Island. It occupied a small shop a block off the main street that ran through the center of town. I had stopped by on several occasions, but most of the time I just ran into Kreuger’s market because that’s what I had been doing since I was a kid. But if the food from last night’s supper was any indication, I really should start giving the German deli some of my business.
    As I drove by I could see the place was shut down for the night, but a small sign on the door said they opened at seven on weekdays and I planned on stopping by for a piece of strudel on my way to work.
    I arrived home ten minutes later to find John already there and heating up some leftover baked macaroni and cheese for our supper.
    “Just in time,” my husband said as he planted a kiss on my lips. “I made a salad and steamed some carrots for supper. Hungry?”
    I had eaten my fair share of pot roast and mashed potatoes at my parents’ for lunch, but I do love homemade baked macaroni and cheese.
    “A little. I had a big lunch, but I could do with a bowl.”
    “Sunday lunch with your parents?” John knew me so well.
    “And Meme. And Sam and the kids. And of course Riley. Riley loves pot roast.” Ever since my parents adopted the little guy a few months before, I had toyed with the idea of getting a dog, but they were a lot of work and needed lots of attention. With our schedules, John and I barely found time for each other. And besides, I could go over and play with Riley whenever I felt like it. For right now, that worked just fine.
    I sat at the kitchen table and John brought me a bowl of macaroni and then set the