License to Dill (7 page)

A
fter getting home from the farm, Piper talked with Will by phone. He had already heard the news.

“I feel I should do something,” he said, “but I have to drive to Rochester tomorrow to check out new bailing equipment.”

Piper knew it was crunch time for Will's Christmas tree farm, when he needed to make sure all his ducks were in a row for his busy November-December season. She wished him a safe trip and promised to update him on the situation when he got back.

The next morning, expecting a busy day, Piper fortified herself with a breakfast of oatmeal and toast topped with her own strawberry jam and, of course, coffee. Lots of coffee.

When she raised the shade on her shop door, hopefully prepared to face the onslaught of rehashings and minute-by-minute updates of the previous day's events, to her surprise the first person she saw heading toward Piper's Picklings was Erin. Quiet, mind-her-own-business Erin.

This longtime friend of Amy's had flexible hours, Piper knew, working part-time at Dr. Dickerson's office while taking classes at the community college in nearby Bellingham. But Piper was still surprised that Erin, instead of all the more news-spreading townspeople (Piper carefully avoided the word “gossiping”), was the first to arrive on this extremely newsworthy morning. However, given a choice, calm and sensible Erin would have been a strong favorite.

Piper unlocked her door and held it open as the young woman approached.

“You're out early,” she said. Erin was dressed for her receptionist's job, having paired a pale yellow sweater, which complemented her brunette coloring, with a dark, knee-length skirt.

“I have to be at Dr. Dickerson's in a few minutes, but I wanted to get this to Amy today.” She held out the book she'd been carrying. “It's a library book she asked me to pick up for her when I was there. I know Amy sleeps in after working late at A La Carte, so I thought I'd leave it here. Is that okay?”

“Of course. Come on in. Want some coffee?”

Erin stepped in but turned down the coffee, saying, “I'll get plenty at the office.” She paused. “As well as an earful about what happened yesterday.”

Piper noticed dark shadows under Erin's eyes. “This is upsetting you.”

Erin nodded, grimacing. “I like the Standleys. I got to know Miranda when we were both in chorus. She was two years behind me at school, but she sang second soprano, like me. We were about the same height, so we were usually next to each other. I like her a lot.”

Erin reached over to straighten a pickling cookbook that jutted out of line on its shelf. “And Mrs. Standley,” she said, “came along sometimes when the chorus traveled for performances. She was always really nice. I hate to think what they might be going through. People are saying Mr. Standley might be in a lot of trouble.”

“‘Might' is the operative word,” Piper cautioned. “So far I haven't heard of anything beyond his being questioned, which is absolutely normal and routine, I'd say, when a body has been found on your property.”

“I tried to call Miranda, but I can't get through.”

“She's probably being barraged with calls right now. Give it a day or so, Erin. Maybe everything will be straightened out by then. Have you talked to Ben lately? Does he know anything more than the rest of us?”

“No, I don't think so. The sheriff had him helping out at the Standley's farm yesterday, but he was mostly there to move curious onlookers along. Today he's back in his office. I'll call him at lunchtime. He might have heard something by then.”

“Let me know if he does, okay?”

“I will.” Erin saw Piper's gaze shift over her shoulder and turned to see Mrs. Tilley approaching the shop. “I'd better get to work,” she said, returning an errant purse strap back to her shoulder. She held the door for Mrs. Tilley, both exchanging polite greetings.

Mrs. Tilley, a regular customer at Piper's Picklings, smiled as she stepped in. “I just wanted to pick up some cinnamon and cloves,” she explained and proceeded to pluck the two jars off their shelves. Instead of bringing the spices to Piper to ring up, however, she continued to browse, adding an occasional item—a slotted ladle, then a package of jar labels—to one of the small shopping baskets that Piper kept handy.

Piper could see from the woman's furtive glances her way that Mrs. Tilley was bursting to chat, but as she watched the purchases drop into the basket she was torn between making it easier for the woman or letting her continue to build what might total up to a tidy sale. When she saw Mrs. Tilley circle a display of canning supplies that Piper knew for a fact she already possessed, she relented.

“I guess you heard about the Italian team's manager,” Piper said.

Mrs. Tilley's face brightened. “Yes! Wasn't that shocking? I heard he was found in the Standley dill field. Is that right?”

“That's what I understand.”

At that moment, Phil Laseter, Cloverdale's retired optometrist, entered the shop. “Ah, Joan! I thought I saw you turn in here. How's Bob?”

“He's fine. Over his cold now,” Mrs. Tilley said, her head bobbing.

“Good, good. Remind him there's a woodworking club meeting tomorrow night, would you?” As Mrs. Tilley nodded, he said, “Terrible business out there at the dill farm, isn't it?”

“Oh, we were just saying!” Mrs. Tilley chirped. “I can't get over it, where he was found, and all. Do you suppose Gerald . . . ?” Her voice trailed off.

Piper jumped in at that point. “It may be only a coincidence. Raffaele Conti's car was found with a flat tire next to the dill field.”

“She's right,” Phil Laseter said. “No use leaping to any conclusions. Though we all know the grudge Gerald held against the man, and—”

“And
nothing
,” Emma Leahy proclaimed as she pushed her way into the shop. “That was years ago when they were kids. Don't go hanging poor Gerald over water that's long gone under the bridge.”

“I wasn't—” Phil Laseter defended himself, only to be interrupted by Joan Tilley, who was in turn interrupted by Emma Leahy.

Piper could only look on in dismay. Gerald Standley was being tried by a jury of his peers before he'd even been charged with anything. And her pickling shop had turned into the courtroom!

“Ladies! Gentleman!” she called, restraining herself from rapping on her counter with a nearby wooden spoon. When they turned her way, Piper asked, “Does anyone know about Raffaele Conti's wife being in town? I heard she'd arrived sometime Saturday.”

“Really?” Mrs. Tilley's eyebrows shot up. “I didn't know that.” Phil and Emma looked at each other and both shook their heads, looking equally surprised.

“I never heard anything about a wife,” Phil said. “She must have stayed at the hotel. Who would know about that?”

“Well, Don Tucker works the desk at the Cloverton,” said Emma. “He should know.”

“Good point. Why don't we go and talk to him.” Phil turned and headed out the door, followed closely by Emma. Mrs. Tilley was on her way out as well when she remembered the basket of unpaid-for items still hooked over her arm.

“Oh!” she cried, glancing anxiously from Piper to her rapidly retreating friends. Piper could see she wanted to keep up with Phil and Emma much more than she wanted to keep her purchases.

“I can hold those for you, Mrs. Tilley,” Piper offered.

“Would you? I'll come back for them. Well, maybe not today. I have to, well, there are things I need to . . .”

Piper sighed silently and took the basket from her would-be customer. “Whenever you can, Mrs. Tilley,” she said and watched the woman scurry down the street after the others.

That scene repeated itself several times that morning, with variations, before Amy finally arrived for her shift. When she walked in, stepping aside for two exiting, and still talking, women, Piper nearly cheered with relief.

“Busy morning?” Amy asked.

“Nonstop. But chatter, not sales. Thoughts of pickling, apparently, do not go along with crime, which I suppose I should be grateful for. Oh, before I forget, Erin dropped a book off for you.” Piper hadn't checked the title when she took it from Erin, and she glanced at it now.
The Ins and Outs of Running a Restaurant
. “Hmm. Something in the works?”

Amy laughed. “I wish! But not for a good while. It's my long-term goal. I'm getting the kitchen end down pat, working at A La Carte. I thought it wouldn't hurt to start studying up on the business end.”

“Good thinking.” As Amy dropped her purse and the library book behind the counter, Piper added, “Perhaps Carl Ehlers could have used some instruction in that department before opening up his pizzeria.”

“I know. What he's going through is exactly what scares me. I don't want to sink a pile of money into a place and then watch it go down the drain. A lot goes into making a success of a restaurant beyond offering good food. There's location, figuring out the right prices, good suppliers . . .” Amy shuddered.

“Where is Carl missing out, do you suppose?”

“I don't know.” Amy stopped tying the strings of the apron she'd put on to think. “His pizza is great, and I think the waitstaff generally do a good job.” She shrugged. “Customers can be fickle, though. One week yours is the trendy place to go to. The next week, who knows? It's like everyone gets the memo, and something sends people elsewhere.”

“Something like a comment on the radio about health code violations at your restaurant?”

Amy nodded vigorously. “If you're in trouble already, that sure won't help. Think anyone would want to patronize a restaurant once the image of a bug-infested kitchen is in their heads? I wonder why Conti did that.”

“Who knows?” Piper said. But as she walked over to tidy up a display of seasoning jars, Piper thought the more interesting question might be how Carl Ehlers reacted to it.

A
my disappeared into the back room to start cooking up a green apple pectin stock from a batch of Granny Smith apples, and Piper stayed where she was, expecting a fresh onslaught of Cloverdale “news spreaders.” What she didn't expect was Scott popping in, looking dapper in a sports jacket and shirt and tie over khakis.

“Hey, Lamb Ch—oops!” He grinned. “I mean, Piper. Guess what?”

“What, Scott?”

“I just signed the papers on my new office. It's the one I told you about, down the block and next to the orthopedist. We'll practically be neighbors! I'm celebrating. Want to go to lunch?”

Piper stared at her ex-fiancé. She'd reached the end of her rope with him and it was time to shake him off it. “Scott, we have to talk.”

“Great. I have a nice, quiet place in mind for that, where we can also get a glass of wine to toast my new digs. Sound good?”

“No, not good.” Piper glanced outside her windows to see if anyone was heading their way. All looked clear. “I know when we talked the last time that I agreed to remain friends.”

“Uh-huh. And friends celebrate with friends, right?”

“You've been pushing it, Scott. Showing up at the soccer games, following Will and me to the restaurants afterward—”

“Following?” Scott looked offended. “Your Aunt Judy specifically asked me to come along.”

“And I'm going to have a talk with her, too. Of course she'd invite you along! Aunt Judy has always looked after strays—cats, dogs, and now, apparently, ex-fiancés. Scott, you decided to move to Cloverdale, and that's your call. But you can't just move into my life again. I have some say in that. You have to give me my space.”

Scott was silent.

“I know what you've been doing, picking up sushi and my favorite chocolates, and choosing an office close to my shop.”

“It's a great office,” Scott argued. “It just happens to be where it is.”

“Uh-huh. And I can't stop you from settling there. But don't expect me to join you for lunch at the drop of a hat. And don't show up wherever I happen to be, or bring me gifts. We don't have that kind of relationship anymore. What we had is over.”