A Real Pickle by Jessica Beck Page A

fortify myself against this man’s charms.
    “Are you really brother and sister?” Moose asked.  “I’m just curious because you have different last names.”
    “Alas, I had the misfortune to be wed to Nathaniel Harper once upon a time,” Sarah said.  “The mistake was corrected quickly enough, but I found that I enjoyed being a Harper, so I kept it.”
    “You are both Tranes, no matter what else might be true about you,” Charlotte said.  “You have Trane blood in you, proud and noble blood.”
    Christopher Crane raised a finger.  “I don’t have any Trane blood in me, but don’t hold it against me.  I was Curtis’s financial planner, closest advisor, and dearest friend.”  He said it as though he were reading it off of an index card, and I didn’t believe that the last part was true under any circumstances.
    I could see one problem right away.  
    Every last one of them was tall and thin.
    That meant that I had to strike one theory out on the face of it.  I’d hoped to eliminate at least one of our suspects based on sheer size alone, but these folks all fit the basic parameters of the mysterious killer who’d struck so effectively at the diner.
    “Now that we’ve dispensed with the formalities, I suggest we get on with this,” Charlotte said.  “I’m sure that my brother had his reasons for inviting you here, and we’ll extend every courtesy to you both as guests, but I ask that you stay in your rooms at night and not wander through the hallways unescorted.”
    Why was that?  Was she warning us, or was it an outright threat?  What did she have to hide?  It just made me want to go exploring even more after everyone else was asleep, but I decided to keep that inclination to myself.
    Charlotte continued, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to our supper.  We’ll speak later, I’m sure.”
    “I’m sure we will,” Moose said, echoing her sentiment.
    It was clear that Charlotte was used to getting the last word in every conversation, and just as certain to me that she’d met her match in my grandfather.
     
    After Charlotte was gone, Crane said, “I’d appreciate it if we could chat first.  I have other obligations, after all.”  As he said the last bit, he looked directly at Sarah and Tristan, and I wondered about the relationship between them.  There was obviously some animosity there.  The real question was if any of them would talk to us about it.
    “Would you three mind waiting outside?” I asked Sarah, Tristan, and Jeffrey.  “This shouldn’t take long, but we’d like to do it on an individual basis.”
    “Why on earth could that possibly matter?” Sarah asked.  She seemed quite put off by the suggestion that we had the nerve to ask her to leave, and I suspected that we might have a problem getting rid of her.  Tristan stepped in, though.  “Come along, dear sister.  After all, this is our uncle’s last request.  Who are we not to honor it?”
    She left, albeit reluctantly, and Jeffrey followed suit.  I didn’t have a pad of paper with me, or even a pen.  How were we supposed to take notes?  I knew that we weren’t really writing a tribute to Curtis, but we had to at least make it look as though we were.  Again, Moose stepped in.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small spiral notebook with a pen attached.  It was the pad he used to take notes to remind him of things, not that he was getting old and feeble, but rather because his mind always seemed to take off in a dozen different directions at the same time, and if he didn’t write it all down, some of it would be lost forever.
    “How long did you know Curtis, Christopher?” Moose asked the man as we sat down across from him at the table.  
    “Please, call me Crane.  Everyone does.”
    “Fine then,” Moose said.  “When did you two first meet?”
    “We went to prep school together,” Crane said.  “Our friendship was based on two odd young men paired together by a dean who