Page 70 of Fiona and the Fixer

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’tladyme,” 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.”

“Whydon’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 myhand 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 haveanythingto 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.”

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