Chapter 31
31
FIONA
Oh boy.
The Highcliffs. There literally were no words to describe them. Okay, maybe one: crazy.
Was Hannah crazy like them? I hoped not because I really, really wanted to like her.
Thankfully, Mrs. Highcliff–she still wouldn’t let me call her Marcia–had her purse over her shoulder and keys in hand within two minutes of finishing off the store-bought, doctored potato salad. It took a little bit to corral and cajole Bob away from his beaver stuffing, but ultimately Mrs. Highcliff did some kind of mind meld, death glare on him and we were headed toward Main in less than fifteen minutes.
She sure did like her potato salad .
The plan that I was supposed to be sticking to was that I’d go with them, at least to Main Street. Dax would be at the bookstore and watch from the front window. He’d call me and I’d pretend I had to take an important call and let them go into the store without me, this all done out of view of the pickle shop front window.
This was to ensure the couple would follow through on their promise to get more relish… immediately. If we waited for them to go pickle shopping, there was no knowing how long that would take. Days, weeks? Maybe they’d forget entirely. Maybe someone else would drop off potato salad with…bacon and she’d never want relish again. While I didn’t eat it, I knew bacon was a strong motivator.
Dax’s plan was good and all, but all it did was find out if they were out of stock again today.
I had a plan of my own. One that involved me snooping into the pickle barrels in the back of the store while the pickle people were busy up front with the Highcliffs.
I had to see what was in those containers. If the store really was a front for drugs, I’d know as soon as I got my hands on–or in–one.
Once in town, I pointed out a parking spot on a side street instead of in front of the pickle store.
“Oh, you two go ahead,” I said, stopping on the sidewalk. I thumbed over my shoulder. “I’m going to run to the outdoor store while you’re in the pickle shop. I, um, want to, um… get bullets for my gun.”
Bob waved and walked off. Mrs. Highcliff eyed me for an extra moment, then nodded. “Always be prepared is my motto.”
I didn’t know Mrs. Highcliff and the Boy Scouts shared a motto, but if she wasn’t questioning me about… anything, then I didn’t care.
She caught up to Bob quickly–her pace was that of a speed walker–and they went around the corner onto Main and the pickle shop storefront. I did my own speed walking and cut down the alley to the back. The pickle van was parked facing out for easy loading access. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, knowing it had to be Dax seeing the Highcliffs enter the store.
I ignored it, plus all the sounds bombarding me to focus on Mrs. Highcliff and Bob.
“Hello!” Mrs. Highcliff called. “Anyone here?”
I picked up on the familiar sound of heavy pickle barrels being moved around.
“We can get some dill pickles while we’re here,” Bob added.
“Fuck,” a man muttered, clearly not happy there were customers. Why they put their business in a major tourist area confused me. This kind of front was usually in some shady warehouse. I agreed, no one would suspect any kind of drug trafficking coming through Coal Springs, and maybe they didn’t have any shady warehouses in this town and the Main Street storefront was the only option.
“Hello!” she called again.
Shuffling footsteps.
“We’re here for some pickles,” she announced .
The pickle guy must’ve come from the back. “Sorry, don’t have any.”
“What? You’re a pickle store. You have to have them.”
That was my cue. Not her words, but Mrs. Highcliff’s annoyance. I had a feeling she wasn’t going to skimp sharing it.
“A friend was in and bought some relish. I want two jars.”
I dashed for the back door, pulled it open slowly, peeking in to make sure the second man wasn’t around. When the backroom was empty, I sighed in relief.
A stacked tower of white five-gallon pickle containers were along one white wall. A bunch of them were scattered on the floor around the room. If there was a fire, someone would kill themselves trying to weave around them to get out.
“Listen, lady, we don’t have any relish either,” the pickle guy replied.
Now was the time. I tiptoed to the closest barrel. Nudged it. It was light, so I assumed it was empty. Twisting the large lid, I worked it off.
“Don’t lady me,” Mrs. Highcliff countered. “I know the relish came from here. Go in the back and make some.”
My head popped up. What? No.
“I can’t make any if I don’t have any pickles.”
“ Why don’t you have pickles?” Mrs. Highcliff wondered. “This is a pickle shop.”
“I’d like some dill, well done,” Bob added. “Five or six.”
I returned my focus to the barrel. It was empty. I put my hand in, immediately felt the false bottom. A secret hiding place was common among smuggled goods. It was what I expected. The bottom gave and I saw how the container was split in two. It was completely empty. No drugs or whatever they were transporting.
Putting the lid back on, I quickly went to the containers, nudging them to find ones that had some heft. I unscrewed a lid, and it was full of pickles in liquid that had a vinegary tang. It was hard to tell if there was a false bottom with this one. The pickles did a remarkable job. The only way I could see what was beneath was to chuck the pickles. While there was an industrial stainless-steel sink by the door, I couldn’t dump them down the drain. Or in the trash.
Tossing them off a cliff seemed reasonable now.
Abandoning that container, I moved to another one. Too light. Then another. Too heavy. I hoped for one that was just right.
“Look, I’m sorry, but we don’t have–”
“What kind of business is this?” Mrs. Highcliff repeated. “Do you have anything to sell?”
“Do you sell those little gherkins?” Bob asked. “I’d like to put them in a martini.”
“What the hell’s a gherkin?”
“A baby pickle.”
“You don’t know what a gherkin is?” Mrs. Highcliff questioned. I could see her looking down her nose. “I want to see the manager.”
I found a slightly heavy, slightly light container. Unscrewed the lid. Looked inside. Empty. I poked at the false bottom and found…
Bingo.
Plastic wrapped bags. Four of them. I picked one up. Hundreds of small pale blue pills inside.
Fentanyl.
“I am the manager,” the man replied.
“Then I’d like to file a complaint.”
“Lady, you talking is filing a complaint. I don’t have any pickles.”
“Why?”
“Because they went bad.”
“Was there a food poisoning outbreak? I didn’t hear of one. Does the county health department know?”
I could hear the man’s blood pressure rising. “No food poisoning. Just no pickles.”
Mrs. Highcliff huffed. “I’ll be back tomorrow when your supply is replenished.”
“It might not be tomorrow. There’s a… a pickle shortage.”
“How am I going to make the potato salad?” she asked.
“Sorry, lady. Get some at the store?”
“Have you ever eaten store bought potato salad? All egg or all mustard. No flavor.”
“Sorry.”
Mrs. Highcliff and Bob both grumbled to themselves. I doubted the guy could hear, but I could. Incompetent. Pickles are just cucumbers. Now what am I going to drink? I heard the bell above the door ring, signaling their grumpy departure .
That meant the guy would be back. I grabbed one of the plastic packages and tucked into the back of my pants, then set the container back, screwing the lid on. Then flew out the back door. As soon as the door was closed behind me, I heard the guy returning to his work and muttering to himself about crazy people.
Going around the van, I bumped into someone. It was Mr. Leather Jacket from the day before.
“Shit, sorry,” I muttered, taking a few steps back.
“Whoa,” he said. “Whatcha doin’?”
“I was in yesterday and–”
“Pregnant lady. I remember.”
Great, he remembered me.
“Well, I um, I overheard customers up front being told there still weren’t any pickles so I came back here to see if some were in your van.”
“That’s a pretty wicked craving,” he replied, eyeing me.
I swallowed, set my hand on my flat belly. “Seriously. I had no idea it would be like this. You don’t want to fuck with a hormonal woman. I need my pickles,” I practically growled.
He held up his hands as if to ward me off, probably thinking my head was going to spin around in circles. “Okay, hang on.”
He went inside, kept the door open, which meant I couldn’t sprint off.
I watched as he twisted the lid off the first container I tried and pulled out a pickle with his bare hand .
He returned to me, holding the pickle up like a popsicle and shoved it at me. “Here. Only a few left.”
I had to take the dripping pickle. “God, thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”
He grunted, then went inside, pulling the back door shut behind him.
Fuck. FUCK. I took a second for my heart to calm, then dashed down the alley, tossing the pickle into a shrub before I hit the side street.
I met the Highcliffs at their car and pretended to notice if they had any purchases. “No luck?”
Mrs. Highcliff frowned. “They don’t have any pickles.”
“Huh.”
“Did you know a gherkin is a baby pickle?” Bob asked.
“Did you get the bullets, dear?” Mrs. Highcliff asked, ignoring her husband. She went around the car to the driver’s side. Even if her husband wasn’t drunk before lunch, I still knew she’d drive. She obviously wore the pants in this family.
“No luck, either,” I replied.
I had good and bad luck. The pickle people really were smuggling drugs. I had the proof I needed tucked in my pants. Except if the men counted their supply, they’d know they were short. And Mr. Leather Jacket would definitely remember me.
Because Dax made me the crazy, hormonal pregnant lady.