License to Dill (8 page)

Scott stared at the floor a few moments, then looked back to Piper. “I'll stop bringing you things,” he said softly, “if that's what you want. But you can't stop me from caring about you, Piper.”

Piper kept herself from screaming in exasperation,
You had your chance and you blew it!
Instead she simply said, “I hope you can move on, Scott.”

Scott looked ready to say more when Emma Leahy burst into the shop, something that was becoming a habit with her. Emma always seemed to be dressed in what Piper thought of as gardening clothes—loose denims and oversize shirts over faded tees, often with a smudge of dirt or a grass stain—but she was doing precious little gardening that day.

“We weren't able to talk to Don Tucker,” Emma reported. “He wasn't on duty at the Cloverton.”

“Don Tucker?” Scott asked. “The guy at the front desk?”

“That's him. We wanted to ask Don about Raffaele Conti's wife coming to town. If anyone knows anything about that, he would.”

“Oh, I know about that,” Scott said. “I was there when she showed up. What do you need to know? I'd be glad to help.”

Emma's face lit up as Piper's fell.

And I was so close
, she thought,
to sending him on his way
.

“Y
ou know, of course, about Conti being murdered?” Emma said to Scott. When he nodded, she said, “A lot of people are assuming Gerald Standley did it, since the body was found in Gerald's dill field and the two had, well, history between them. I, for one, don't happen to think that what occurred between people years ago when they were in their teens is going to cause one to kill the other. A wife, on the other hand, might have much more immediate reasons to kill a husband, wouldn't you agree?”

“Absolutely! I prosecuted loads of domestic cases when I was in Albany. Passions always ran high in those situations.”

“That's exactly what I thought!” Emma said. “So, what I want to know is what this wife is like and why she showed up out of the blue just hours before her husband was found dead.”

“Well,” Scott said, “I can't answer your second question. But I can tell you something of what she's like. Drop-dead gorgeous, for one. Possibly at least ten years younger than Conti.”

“That would put her in her late thirties,” Piper said, her interest piqued despite her initial frustration. “Is that about right?”

Scott rocked his hand. “Give or take. Italians age well, you know. Something to do with all the olive oil in their diet. She's very stylish, so I'd guess she's from Rome, or maybe Milan.”

“Did you see them together?” Emma asked. “How did they behave?”

“I saw her arrive. I was just passing through that big-windowed lobby when the team was gathering to leave for practice. All heads turned when she climbed out of her taxi. Conti looked floored. He clearly wasn't expecting her.”

“Happy floored or not so happy?” Piper asked.

“Not so, I'd say. But he recovered fast and put on a big show of welcome. There was the expected kiss-kiss, hug-hug, but it was fairly stiff, you know? Like what you see on TV talk shows. All for the audience.”

“Aha!” Emma cried. “So all was not well between them! We might have a suspect! Someone better than Gerald. Piper,” she said, “you should look into this.”

“Me!”

“Well, you did so well with our last murder. Our bagpiper.”

Right, and almost got myself killed.

“Bagpiper?” Scott asked.

“It's a long story, Scott.”

“I'd be very interested,” he said. “Especially the part about you doing so well with, what, a murder investigation?”

“I simply—”

At that moment, and to Piper's relief, Amy poked her head out from the back room. “I set the pectin to simmer and— Oh, sorry!”

“That's okay,” Piper said. “Need some help back there?”

“No, I . . .” Amy began before catching the look Piper shot her. “Actually, yes, I'm having a little trouble.”

“I'll be right there. Excuse me, Scott, Emma.”

“Wait,” Scott called, but Piper kept moving, muttering to Amy as she slipped on by, “Take over out there?”

Amy nodded. “Got it.”

Piper closed the door firmly behind her and leaned against it, hearing Emma, Scott, and Amy all talking at once. Eventually things quieted down, and she heard Emma, then Scott leave, evidently worn down by Amy's nonanswers.

Piper sighed. She could only hope she'd gotten through to Scott about the need to stop dogging her every move under the guise of friendship. Her aim was to keep him at a distance, but now Emma seemed eager to pull him into her growing circle of Cloverdale crime solvers—and to have Piper lead them!

Never mind that stepping into a group project that included Scott would only get him started all over again. What Piper had done after the murder of Alan Rosemont, the bagpiper, was a totally unique, onetime effort. When it ended, Piper was more than happy to return to quietly running her business.

At that thought, she went over to check out Amy's pot of simmering, chopped Granny Smith apples—peels, cores, seeds, and all—which, once cooked and strained, would make a great stock for future jellies and jams. Picturing those delicacies coaxed up a smile, just as gently stirring the mixture gradually soothed Piper's agitation. This was what she had settled in Cloverdale to do, she reminded herself, and this was what she intended to stick with—as she also preferred to let Sheriff Carlyle do his own job.

“P
iper, Sheriff Carlyle isn't doing his job!” Miranda Standley cried, having burst into Piper's Picklings, her usually perfect, long blond hair flying about in disarray.

It was late afternoon. Amy was on the verge of leaving for A La Carte, and Gil Williams had just popped in to report on the success of Piper's raspberry-lavender jam as a hostess gift. The green apple pectin stock had been strained, reduced, and parceled out into freezer and refrigerator containers in between dealing with an endless stream of chatty visitors to the shop, and Piper had just congratulated herself on getting through most of the day relatively unscathed.

Miranda suddenly noticed Amy's presence. “Sorry,” she said. “I know he's your dad and all, but it's true.”

“Why do you say that?” Piper asked, though she had an uneasy idea of what the answer would be.

“Because he's not making it absolutely clear that my father had nothing to do with Raffaele Conti's murder! He took Daddy in for questioning—something the entire town apparently watched—and now he's left the whole thing up in the air! No statement like ‘Gerald Standley has been cleared of all involvement' or anything.”

“Believe me,” Amy said, “I know how you feel. When Nate was under suspicion, it was infuriating.”

“The law needs to work very carefully,” Gil Williams put in. “Gathering evidence takes time.”

“But in the meantime, everyone's looking at my dad like he's a murderer.” Miranda burst into tears. “It's not right!”

Amy went over and put her arms around Miranda. “Everyone's
not
thinking your dad's a murderer,” she insisted. “We know your dad too well for that.”

“Maybe
you
don't think he could be guilty,” Miranda conceded, swiping at her eyes, “but there's still plenty who do. People are driving up to our farm and taking photos and posting them on Twitter and Facebook with stupid captions, like
What did the farmer do in the dill?
And my mom got a call from the head of the Cloverdale Women's Club suggesting she drop out.”

“What!” Amy cried.

Miranda nodded. “It's true. Mrs. Pennington put it as though she was only concerned about Mom and how overwhelmed she must be. But she was really thinking of that club she's ruled with an iron hand for years. Like my mom would contaminate it or something.”

“Leona Pennington is a consummate snob,” Gil Williams said. “I wouldn't worry too much about her opinion.”

“Mom knows that. But she's still upset. She did tons of work for that group, which she always thought did a lot of good despite Mrs. Pennington. So far she's not gotten support from anyone else in the club. And that's just two examples,” Miranda said. “I know it's going to get worse until Dad's one hundred percent cleared of this murder.”

“Maybe we can help,” Amy said. She glanced at Piper as she said it, and Piper winced.

“That's why I came here,” Miranda said. “I know what you did for Nate, Piper. Everyone still talks about it.”

“Miranda, that was just—”

“Daddy really needs a few people to believe in him.”

“We certainly believe in him,” Gil said. He turned to Piper. “I don't think Miranda expects you to neglect your business or get involved in anything risky. But you and I both see plenty of people in our shops. We could do our best to turn people's opinions around, for one thing. But we can also ask questions and maybe ferret out bits of information that nobody thought to pass on to Sheriff Carlyle.”

Piper nodded. Gil was right. She didn't have to—and really couldn't—promise Miranda an answer to who killed Raffaele Conti. But keeping an eye out for anything that might help her father was the least a friend could do. And she did consider Gerald Standley a friend, despite their interactions being limited to the times he dropped off her dill orders. And what would she do without his excellent dill? At the very least, she owed the Cloverdale picklers and pickle consumers guaranteed continued cultivation and supply of Gerald Standley's one-of-a-kind dill.

“I'll do what I can, Miranda,” she said. When Miranda and Amy both whooped she cautioned, “But please don't expect more than what Gil just said. I'll keep my ears open and see what I can pry out of people. But that's all I can promise.”

“Thank you.” Miranda ran over to give Piper a gasp-inducing hug. “And my dad and mom will be very grateful, too. I'm sure they'll be glad to talk to you whenever you want.”

“That would probably be a good thing,” Gil said after regaining his breath from an enthusiastic hug of his own. “And,” he added, “it might be a good idea to keep this among ourselves—and your parents, of course, Miranda—for the time being.”

Miranda nodded, but said, “I already told Frederico I was going to ask you. I hope that's all right?”

“Frederico?” Gil asked.

“A soccer player on the Bianconeri team,” Amy explained. “Miranda's been seeing him.”

Miranda flushed a bit, then said, “Daddy wasn't real happy when he found out about that. But only because he doesn't know Frederico! I mean, just because the one man from Italy that Daddy knew turned out to be awful doesn't mean they all are.” She looked around for confirmation, which Amy quickly provided. Amy, after all, understood something of that.

Piper nodded, though she'd reserve judgment of Frederico until she met him herself. But Miranda's comment told her that the girl was aware of at least some of the history between Raffaele Conti and her father.

Thinking of that history—and the wounds that had remained raw, judging from what she saw pass between the two men—Piper could definitely understand Sheriff Carlyle's reluctance to rule out Gerald Standley as a suspect. And the fact that Conti's body was found in Standley's field certainly didn't help. There must be another explanation for what happened, though. Now that she'd promised Miranda to keep her eyes open, Piper hoped that explanation would quickly present itself.

“I
can't believe Leona Pennington actually did that!” Aunt Judy sputtered when Piper called to tell her about the women's club president's recent actions. Miranda's comment that no other members of the club had contacted Denise Standley about the situation told Piper that her aunt, at least, was unaware of Mrs. Pennington's high-handedness.

“I'll spread the word among the others in the club. After that I'll head over to the Standleys' place and see if I can talk to Denise in person. Leona shouldn't get away with this.”

“Um, while you're there,” Piper said, “you might mention to Denise that I promised to do what I can to help clear Gerald and would like to come by and talk with them sometime, too.”

“Oh? You promised who?”

“Miranda. She was pretty upset, and with good reason. I agreed to keep my eyes and ears open to help her dad. I doubt it will make much difference, but—”

“Tall towers start with a single brick,” Aunt Judy said. “Or is it long journeys and single steps? Well, never mind. You know what I mean. Every little bit helps, is what I'm trying to say. Would you like to go with me to the Standleys? Maybe come here for dinner after you close up, and we could run over afterward?”

Piper didn't need to ask if popping in for dinner on such short notice was convenient. Aunt Judy always seemed prepared for last-minute guests. And her house was always company-ready. Cleaning and cooking appeared to get done as naturally and continually by her aunt as breathing, and if asked how she managed it, she would probably say with surprise, “I just
do
.” Piper often wished she possessed the knack, particularly when glancing around her own, much less tidy living quarters.

They arranged a time, Aunt Judy agreeing to let Piper bring along a jar of blueberry jam to spread on the homemade pound cake that she, of course, had on hand for dessert, and Piper finished the remainder of her workday thinking about what to ask Gerald and Denise Standley.

A
s Uncle Frank waved them off from the farm, he said, “Tell Gerald I'd be glad to pitch in if he needs help on that broccoli field of his.” Piper had forgotten that Gerald Standley grew other crops, dill being the one she was most concerned with. But if Gerald had gotten behind on his work because of the murder as well as the tournament, she was sure he'd appreciate Uncle Frank's offer of help.

During dinner, Aunt Judy had reported on her flurry of phone calls to other members of the Cloverdale Women's Club. Many were as horrified as she'd been to learn of Leona Pennington's call to Denise Standley. Some, however, were disappointingly taking a wait-and-see stance.

“The trouble with wait and see,” Aunt Judy complained, “is that by the time everyone
sees
, the damage has been done. Who knows how long it will take Sherriff Carlyle to catch the person who committed that awful crime? Should Gerald and Denise be expected to live under a cloud and in isolation all that time?”

Another reason to try to speed the process along
, Piper thought. She drove toward the Standley farm, realizing for the first time that she'd never been inside their house. During the childhood summers Piper had spent with Aunt Judy and Uncle Frank there'd been no particular reason, such as playmates her age, for her to go there. Miranda had only appeared on the scene by the time Piper was ten or so and therefore was of little interest to Piper's childish self. It was too bad that it took a tragedy like this to draw her closer to the family.

“I called Denise to let her know we were coming,” Aunt Judy said. “They're still getting so many nosey parkers coming by that Gerald has had to block their driveway. She said he'll watch for us.”

“A shame they've had to go to such lengths.” Piper slowed as they approached the far edge of the dill field, the one she'd driven by with such pleasure in the past, and looked for the entrance, which sadly was no longer marked with an identifying sign or mailbox.

“There,” Aunt Judy said, “right after the pine tree.”

Piper turned in and drove up the graveled driveway, coming before long to a barricade of sawhorses. A hand-lettered sign proclaiming “Private!”
hung from the center one. Gerald Standley was trotting toward them from the other side, and he waved, then lifted the sawhorses out of the way.

“Will you ride up with us, Gerald?” Aunt Judy called as Piper pulled even with him.

“No, go on ahead. My truck is just around the bend. I'll set these back up and be right behind you.”

Aunt Judy tsked quietly to herself as she raised her window, and Piper nodded silent agreement. How miserable to have to screen visitors to one's home that way.

They spotted Denise on the front porch as they drew near the house, and she waved toward an area on the right where Piper could park her car. As she and Aunt Judy climbed out, they saw Gerald's truck pull into a spot closer to a large barn, a few yards away. Denise stepped off the porch and met them halfway as they made their way to the house.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she said.

Piper knew Denise was the same age as Gerald, in her late forties, but she could easily have passed for late thirties—on a good day. This, unfortunately, wasn't one of those. Denise's usually attractively curled, light brown hair was pulled back severely into a ponytail from which straggly wisps escaped. She hugged a bulky gray sweater around her, concealing an otherwise trim figure, and dark shadows beneath her eyes hinted at stress and sleepless nights. She'd added a swipe of color to her lips, but it did little to lighten the overall effect of gloom.

“I wish we'd been able to come before this,” Aunt Judy said after giving Denise a fervent hug. “Frank and I just couldn't get through for the longest time, either to call or to come by.”

Denise sighed. “I know. It's been a hassle for all of us.” She turned to Piper. “Miranda told me about talking to you today. I think she's imposing, but why don't we talk about it inside. I have coffee ready.”

Piper and Aunt Judy followed Denise to the old but well-kept two-story house, crossing a wide veranda with a white-painted railing and a welcoming porch swing. Once inside, Denise waved them toward the living room while she fetched the coffee from the kitchen. Piper followed Aunt Judy to a flower-printed sofa, glancing around at a cheery, light-filled room that felt out of sync with the recent happenings. Photos of a smiling Miranda—from childhood to high school prom to graduation—sprinkled the tables and walls, and a silver-framed photo of Denise and Gerald on their wedding day held a central spot on the bookcase.

“Here we are,” Denise said as she rejoined them, carrying a tray with steaming mugs. She handed them out, offering cream and sugar, then sank into a chair with a mug of her own. They heard steps on the porch, and Gerald stepped in and joined them. He took a chair near Denise after picking up the final coffee.

“Glad you stopped by,” he said, taking a tentative sip. “Denise hasn't had too many friends come to call.”

“That's what we wanted to talk to you about,” Aunt Judy said, setting down her mug on the low table before her. “At least, it's one of the things. I just learned today—from Piper—what Leona Pennington said to you, Denise, and I want you to know that she absolutely doesn't speak for all of us, even though she is club president. I, for one—and I know you'll hear from more ladies—want you to stay active in the club.”

Denise's eyes filled for a moment before she blinked them clear. “Thank you, Judy. Leona has a point, though, hurtful as it seems. My showing up for club activities might be too disruptive right now.”

“Poppycock! If the ladies of the Cloverdale Women's Club can't stand by one of their own at a time like this, then what use are we? We don't exist simply to plant flowers around memorials. Our motto, for heaven's sake, is ‘To make Cloverdale a better place to live.' What better way to do that than by showing support to each other when it's warranted?”

“I'm afraid not everyone agrees that it's warranted.” Gerald said it flatly but with a tightness around his lips. Denise reached out to gently squeeze his arm.

“Well, anyone who knows you as well as we do won't have an ounce of suspicion,” Aunt Judy insisted.

“Thank you, Judy,” Denise said. “And thank you, too, Piper. I appreciate your coming along with your aunt to add encouragement. But please don't feel you need to do anything more than that”—she smiled weakly—“despite my daughter's pleas.”

“I only promised Miranda to keep my eyes and ears open for whatever might come up.” Piper noticed Gerald frown at her mention of Miranda and wondered if it was because of their clash over Frederico. “Do you mind me asking a few questions? It could help me piece together any other bits of information I might learn.”

“Go ahead,” Gerald said.

“Who actually discovered Conti's body?”

“I did,” he said. “I was up earlier than usual, and once it was light enough I decided to check on the latest dill crop. I do continual plantings of dill, every two or three weeks as long as the weather holds out.”

Piper nodded, remembering that Gerald had once explained that cycle to her.

“I spotted something a few yards in,” Gerald went on. “Thought it was a dog at first and went over to see. It was a shock, I'll tell you, when I realized it was a man. Then I got closer and saw it was
him
.” Gerald shook his head.

“Conti's car was at the edge of the road. How far was he from his car?”

“Probably fifty yards or so. Coming from Judy and Frank's place, you wouldn't pass the part of the field where it happened. If you turn the other way on your way out, you'll see the area that's all trampled from the crime scene people.”

Piper winced at the image of Gerald's lovely dill being tramped down, but Gerald shrugged. Losing part of his dill crop was clearly the least of his worries.

“You said you were up early. Did you hear anything during the night?”

Gerald uncrossed his legs and shifted in his chair. Denise stared down at her coffee. “Actually,” Gerald said, “I didn't sleep much that night at all. Had a lot of things on my mind that I couldn't seem to shake. When that happens I usually go outside and walk around so I won't wake Denise or Miranda. It was dark, so I stayed close to the house. But I did hear a shot. This is farm country, though. We hear shots now and then. I didn't think much of it.”

“What time was that?”

“I'm guessing around one thirty, maybe one forty-five. That's what I told the sheriff. He also asked if I went to investigate, which I didn't. First of all, sound travels funny sometimes. You can't always pinpoint the direction it comes from. Second of all, if someone's out there shooting at a deer or something, I sure as heck don't want to get in his way. I stayed where I was and went inside pretty soon.”

“You didn't hear voices?”

“Nope.”

Piper turned to Denise. “Did
you
hear anything?”

Denise shook her head. “I'm a pretty sound sleeper. And as Gerald says, shots are so unremarkable around here that if one went off I probably wouldn't stir.”

“I'm sure the sheriff asked about any guns you might own,” Piper said, and both Gerald and Denise nodded.

“They took the one rifle I have to compare it with the bullet in Conti. It didn't match.” Gerald shifted uneasily again. “The problem is . . .”

“Yes?”

When Gerald didn't answer right away, Denise explained for him. “We owned another gun, a .44 Special handed down from Gerald's father. When the sheriff asked us to turn over all our firearms, we couldn't find that one. It's been years since we did anything with it, and we'd almost forgotten about it. We kept it in the house, originally. Then when Miranda was a toddler, I asked Gerald to put it somewhere safe in the barn, a place she couldn't get to.”