License to Dill (9 page)

“And I did,” Gerald said. “But over the years I moved it around as needed until I eventually forgot all about it. I told the sheriff it probably was so rusted and dirty by now that it wouldn't work anyway. But he didn't like the idea that I couldn't locate it. I don't, either, come to that. I shouldn't have been so careless about it, and I don't like not knowing what happened to the thing.”

Neither would Sheriff Carlyle, obviously
, Piper thought. Which must be the reason he was unwilling to let Gerald off the hook. Looking at the faces of the others—including Aunt Judy—Piper could tell they were all thinking the same thing.

“Would the bullets from your old gun have been the same caliber as the bullet that killed Raffaele Conti?”

Denise and Gerald glanced at each other, the misery on both faces foretelling the answer. Then Gerald nodded.

“Oh dear,” Aunt Judy said in a small voice, understating the large problem that created for Gerald Standley.

It, however, was something Sheriff Carlyle would have to deal with. Piper's problem at the moment was how to learn the source of Gerald's lingering fury toward Conti. She'd just drawn a breath to ease her way into the subject, when light steps sounded outside on the veranda.

The front door opened and Miranda flew in.

“I was hoping that was your car. Great!” she said excitedly to Piper, looking convinced that now all would be well.

Piper managed to smile but inwardly felt as though a fifty-pound weight had just been loaded on her back.

“W
ell,” Gerald said, rising from his chair, “I've got a few things to do in the barn. If there's anything more you want to know, Piper, I'm sure Denise or Miranda can fill you in.”

Piper nodded. That worked for her, since what she wanted to hear about—that past history with Raffaele Conti—might be easier to get from Denise without Gerald around. Piper hoped Gerald wasn't leaving because of Miranda's arrival, though. At a time like this, their small family needed to pull together, not get hung up on lesser disagreements.

“So,” Miranda said, taking her father's chair. “Did Daddy explain how he found Mr. Conti?”

“He did. Did you hear the shot?”

“No, I sure didn't. Daddy said it was around one thirty. I was dead to the world then. Oops!” Miranda grimaced and rolled her eyes. “Bad choice of words, I guess. But that's what I was. Cheerleading, plus being out most of the afternoon with Frederico . . .” She glanced at her mother at that, but Denise simply nodded. “Anyway, nothing woke me until I heard the sheriff's car radio squawking. And he'd been here for a while by then.” She turned to Denise. “I still don't understand why you didn't wake me right away.”

“There was no need,” Denise said. She paused. “And we didn't want you to see . . .”

“Mother! I'm not a child.”

“Oh, Miranda,” Aunt Judy soothed. “No matter how grown-up a person is, you wouldn't want a sight like that getting stuck in your head, believe me.”

Miranda shrugged, disagreeing, but smiled politely at Aunt Judy. A soft trill sounded, and she reached into her pocket to check her phone. “Excuse me, I should take this.” She got up, and Piper heard Miranda's voice fade as she made her way to the kitchen.

“Denise,” Piper said, “would you mind explaining to me why Gerald held such hard feelings toward Raffaele for so long?”

Denise drew in a deep breath, looking reluctant.

“It's important, or I wouldn't ask.”

“No, I understand. It's just that I feel so stupid for what happened. My only excuse is that I was young.”

“All of us have needed that excuse at one time or another,” Aunt Judy said. “Some longer than others.”

Denise smiled. “If it will help Gerald, I can deal with it. By the time Raffaele Conti came to Cloverdale, Gerald and I had been dating for over a year. I was wearing his class ring, and though we both knew we were too young, we'd talked about marriage someday. Gerald, I knew, was head over heels for me, and I didn't have eyes for any other boy—until Raffaele arrived.”

Denise shifted in her chair and clutched at her gray cardigan, pulling it together more tightly. “Raffaele just plain dazzled me. He had movie star good looks, and that accent! Add to that a nearly irresistible charm—the kind we didn't find in any local boys—and he had most of the girls falling at his feet. I did my best to keep my distance, but because he and Gerald both were on the soccer team it was just about impossible.”

She cleared her throat. “It all started about the time that Gerald and most of the other players were furious because of Raffaele's behavior on the team. Looking back, I really think Raffaele came after me as just another way to get to Gerald. Gerald had been pleading with Coach Anderson to be more fair and not let Raffaele take over the team like he was, and Raffaele seemed to glory in the fact that Gerald got nowhere with that. Stealing me away from Gerald was just one more way to rub his nose in the dirt.”

Aunt Judy tsked. “Not a very nice boy.”

“No,” Denise agreed. “Unfortunately I didn't see it then. I broke up with Gerald, I'm ashamed to say, and started seeing Raffaele. I knew I'd hurt Gerald terribly, but that mattered less to me at the time than being the ‘chosen one' of the boy all the females at the school were gushing over. Gerald, though, had pretty much figured out Raffaele's true nature, and he tried desperately to get me to see it, too. When I wouldn't, Gerald took to watching out for me.”

Denise smiled ruefully. “Some might have called it stalking, but, if so, it was for all the right reasons. Gerald was genuinely worried about me. Luckily, as it turned out.”

“What happened?” Piper asked.

Denise sighed deeply. She looked toward the kitchen and, hearing the murmur of her daughter's voice on her cell phone, went on.

“It was the night of the prom. I went with Raffaele, and Gerald showed up with a couple of guy friends. He looked absolutely miserable—this was supposed to have been our big night, but I had ruined it for him. He could have stayed home, and nobody would have blamed him. But he donned a suit and put himself through the misery, all for my sake.

“Of course, I was oblivious—or tried to be. I saw Gerald but was so taken up with my own floating-on-air feelings that I brushed any negative thoughts away. Raffaele and I were the center of admiring attention—Cinderella and Prince Charming—at least I thought so. Who knew that Prince Charming had sneaked in a flask of vodka and had been adding it to the cups of punch he kept bringing me so gallantly?”

Denise shook her head. “Naïve, stupid me. I thought I was having a wonderful time. Every little joke became the funniest thing I'd ever heard! I'd never danced so well or had such a wonderful time! Of course, as the dance ended I'd never felt woozier, but I put it all down to the excitement of the evening.

“Raffaele didn't drive me straight home, but I didn't even notice until he pulled into that dark, empty spot next to Warren's Pond. That was the first I began to sense that all was not right. But I still convinced myself I could trust him, this Prince Charming who had taken me to the ball. He'd changed from that person, though. Even in the semidarkness I could see the expression on his face. I suddenly felt like a mouse cornered by a huge, feral cat.

“No wasting of time to seduce me. He attacked. I screamed and fought, but I could tell, especially in my state, that it would be useless. I'd never felt such fear in my life. Then, out of the blue, headlights blazed behind us. A car door slammed and in an instant Raffaele's door was yanked open and he was dragged off of me. It was Gerald!

“Gerald had kept up his vigilance, painful though it must have been, and followed us, knowing full well that if he was spotted he'd be ridiculed. He was concerned so much more for me than for himself. It didn't take long to deal with Raffaele. He was a coward at heart and didn't put up much of a fight. I quickly jumped into Gerald's car and we drove off, me sobbing and Gerald fuming while at the same time trying to comfort me.”

Denise paused to smile weakly. “I don't know what my parents thought when I came home with Gerald instead of Raffaele. And it was past my curfew. But I needed time to calm down and patch up the damage. Plus apologize to Gerald, over and over. He, of course, blamed himself for not convincing me of what a rat Raffaele really was.”

“You picked a good man,” Aunt Judy said.

“I did, finally, and I'm so grateful he stood by me during my foolishness.”

“You were seventeen,” Piper pointed out.

“And so was he,” Denise said, smiling. “Thank goodness one of us had developed some maturity and sense by then.”

“I suppose that's why he's worried about Miranda,” Piper said.

Denise nodded. “I've tried to point out that Miranda is much smarter than I was, besides being a couple of years older. I haven't gotten very far, though.”

“Conti showing up unexpectedly after all these years must have been quite a jolt,” Piper said.

“It was. If Raffaele had shown the least bit of remorse, it might have made a difference. But he didn't. Gerald said he could see that same arrogance the moment Raffaele stepped out of the bus.”

“Both men had to be at Friday and Saturday's soccer games,” Piper said. “And as far as I saw, kept their distance from one another. Did they ever come in close contact during those two days?”

Denise hesitated. “The sheriff asked that, too. Gerald said they didn't.” She looked steadily at Piper. “And I believe him.”

“P
iper, go! Scoot!”

Standing in the center of the pickling shop's back room, Amy made sweeping motions, urging Piper to leave for her lunch date with Will and sounding eerily like Aunt Judy.

“There's still time for me to—” Piper argued, but Amy would have none of it.

“Go. Whatever it is, I'll do it. You look very nice, by the way.”

“Thanks!” Piper had changed from her usual shop uniform of tee, khakis, and green apron to a pretty blouse, cotton blazer, and slacks. Lunch at the Cloverton called for a higher level of dress.

“And don't rush back,” Amy ordered.

“Yes, ma'am,” Piper said, smiling. “Any thoughts on what I should order?”

“I trust you to choose well. Now go! Will is waiting.”

Piper and Will had agreed to meet at the hotel, since he planned to head to the bank after lunch to discuss a loan for new equipment for the Christmas tree farm—one reason he said he didn't mind slipping on a sports jacket for their lunch. Two birds with one jacket, so to speak. Though Amy had referred to their meeting all morning as a date, strictly speaking it would be a working lunch since Piper knew she would spend much of the time updating Will on Raffaele Conti's murder—not your usual date conversation. In addition, Piper hoped to talk to the Cloverton's desk manager, Don Tucker, about Conti's wife. Emma Leahy may have spoken to the man by then, but Piper wanted to ask her own questions instead of hearing things second- or thirdhand.

Piper gave Amy a quick wave good-bye and headed out back to hop into her Chevy hatchback. It was a great day—bright sun and air that was crisp and sharp with the scents of autumn, the kind of day she would have loved to savor with a walk. Time, however, was a luxury Piper didn't have with a business to get back to, so she drove carefully but quickly, winding her way through the several turns that would bring her to the Cloverton.

Built in the 1920s, the Cloverton had been renovated several years ago, evidenced by the large windows that Scott had mentioned, which added a modern look to the entrance of the building. Piper had been told the rooms on the upper floors were laid out in a maze of corridors and had been decorated individually in various styles, charming visitors who were accustomed to the bland, cookie-cutter décor of chain hotels.

Piper found a nearby spot to park on the street—an achievement that still managed to surprise and delight her after years of living in crowded Albany. As she climbed out of the car, she spotted Will waiting outside the hotel entryway.

“Am I late?” she called out.

Will made a show of studying his watch. “Approximately one minute and twenty-three seconds, but who's counting?” His deadpan expression morphed into a grin. As Piper walked up he said, “I got here early and reserved a table. It was just too nice to wait inside.”

“Isn't it?” Piper agreed. “Too bad they don't have patio dining.”

“From what I hear, the food will make up for it.” He held the door for Piper and followed her inside.

“So you've never dined here?” Piper asked, knowing Will had lived in the Cloverdale area less than two years.

“Nope. Meeting you has opened up a whole new world for me.”

Piper laughed. “You look very nice, by the way,” she said, referring to his “business attire,” which was quite different from his usual work duds of jeans and a flannel shirt.

Will acknowledged the compliment with a dip of his head. “I was about to say the same to you.” They crossed the lobby to reach the restaurant entrance, and the hostess picked up two menus and led them to their table.

Will folded his hands on the white tablecloth. “So,” he said, “what's the latest on the Conti murder?”

Piper waited, having noticed their waitress approaching. As the young woman filled their water glasses and recited the day's specials, Piper and Will made their choices, each passing on the suggested cocktail or wine. Will may have been concerned with keeping a clear head for his upcoming bank negotiation, but Piper knew how embarrassingly likely she was to nod off by late afternoon if she had anything stronger than iced tea with her lunch.

Their food arrived quickly, and between bites of her delicious quiche and salad and to the accompaniment of soft background music, Piper described the Standleys' situation to Will as it now stood, including Gerald's reason for hating Conti, though, for Denise's sake, she kept that explanation to a minimum.

“Miranda is frustrated that Sheriff Carlyle hasn't cleared her father completely from his suspect list,” she said, “but I can understand why he hasn't.”

Will sliced a piece off his filet mignon. “That missing gun is a big red flag. How does a person lose track of something like that?”

Piper shrugged. “It had been Gerald's father's gun. I didn't get the impression they'd ever used it themselves, so it may have been simply forgotten about. With luck the gun will still turn up, otherwise . . .”

Will met Piper's eyes, both aware how dire that could be for Gerald on top of the strong motive he had for killing Raffaele Conti.

“The sheriff may have his suspicions, but I just don't see Gerald turning that violent,” Piper said. “Murder would be too out of character.”

“I'd like to know what Conti was doing at the Standley farm in the middle of the night,” Will said. “His car had a flat tire, sure, but why head into a dill field in the middle of the night if you need help? A field he must have known belonged to the Standleys?”

Piper nodded, having pondered the same things. She crunched on a tasty crouton from her salad as a familiar tune from the piped-in music caught her attention. She was working on identifying it—something from
The Pirates of Penzance
?—when a couple entered the restaurant. The man looked familiar, but it took her a moment to place him without his identifying team jacket: the coach of Bianconeri. And the woman with him was dark haired, stylishly dressed, and quite attractive, just as Scott had described.

Piper leaned toward Will. “I think that must be Raffaele Conti's wife!”

Will glanced over, his face doing a silent
Wow!
before he cleared his throat and said, “You might be right.” He sneaked a second look. “That red dress doesn't exactly say ‘grieving widow,' though.”

“I imagine when she packed, she wasn't expecting to need widow's weeds, although from what Scott said, she and Conti didn't appear to be a devoted couple. Which is why I'd like to—”

“From what Scott said?” Will asked.

Piper made a no-big-deal shrug. “Scott—as well as half of Cloverdale—dropped into the shop yesterday to dissect Conti's murder. Emma Leahy got him started on what he witnessed in the hotel lobby.”

Will swiveled to check the tables behind him as though suddenly fearing to find Scott sitting at one and quietly watching them. A rippling laugh carried their way from the red-dressed, dark-haired woman.

“No,” Piper agreed. “Not exactly grieving.” She thought for a moment. “I'm going over there.”

Will's eyebrows flew up. “And do what?”

“I don't know. Offer condolences? I just want to get a sense of what she's like.”

“What if she doesn't speak English?”

“Then I'll get a close-up look at that fabulous dress.” Piper put down her napkin. “Wish me luck.”

Piper pushed back her chair and stood.
What was the coach's name? She'd heard it mentioned. Tortorelli? That was it. Something Tortorelli.
She drew a deep breath and headed for the table.

“Excuse me. Signore Tortorelli?” Tortorelli turned and he looked up. “I just wanted to offer my condolences on the loss of your team manager, Raffaele Conti.”

“Ah yes, thank you. Thank you very much. And you are?”

“Piper Lamb. I was at both soccer matches and was quite impressed with your team. This must be very stressful for you all.”

Tortorelli tilted his head in acknowledgment, his features blunt and rugged but radiating intensity and intelligence. He gestured toward his table companion. “Miss Lamb, may I introduce Francesca Conti, Raffaele's wife.”

Piper affected surprise, as though the idea that this woman could be Conti's wife had never occurred to her. “Signora Conti! Forgive me for intruding. I'm so sorry about your husband.”

Francesca Conti studied Piper with a cool eye for several moments, and Piper wondered if she perhaps didn't understand English. But then she nodded and said, “
Grazie
, thank you.” Close-up she was even more stunning than she'd appeared from a distance, with dark—Scott might have said “smoldering”—eyes, and full, red-glossed lips. Those lips curled slightly with what appeared to be private amusement, making Piper curious about what she might be finding humorous.

“I'm sorry that your visit to Cloverdale took such a terrible turn,” Piper said. “Will you be staying with us much longer?”

At that, Francesca Conti actually laughed. “I hadn't planned to, but it seems I have little choice now.” She glanced at Tortorelli with merriment.

“The sheriff?” Piper ventured.

“Mmm, yes,” Francesca said, nodding. “Your sheriff. He obviously thinks I am a, how you say, a ‘person of interest.' I am, of course,” she said, smiling at Tortorelli. “I am very interesting, no? But not the way he thinks it, eh, Enzo?”

“No, of course not, Francesca.” He added something in Italian which made Signora Conti laugh even more, though Tortorelli looked quite serious.

“Scusa,”
Francesca said to Piper. “We are being very rude, and you are very kind. It's just a”—she paused, thinking—“a very
odd
situation.”

Tortorelli said something more in Italian and glanced at Piper impatiently. She got the message and took her leave, heading back to her own table and a waiting Will.

“What did you get from that?” Will asked as she slipped back onto her chair.

Piper mulled it over. “Well, first, she
is
Conti's wife, and she speaks English very well—though the coach appeared to feel she spoke it a little more than she should. Beyond that, I found her red dress to be even more gorgeous close-up.”

Piper paused. “And I'd say the color is most appropriate for the way Signora Conti seems to be feeling right now.”