The Pickled Piper (7 page)

P
iper was closing up shop for the evening when she noticed Tina Carson hurrying toward her. Since Tina's coffee shop closed around three, she'd changed from her work clothes to loose shorts and a blouse that deemphasized her extra pounds.

“Good, I caught you!” Tina called out. “I thought I'd pick up that pear chutney and save you a second trip.”

“Oh, right,” Piper said, realizing the chutney had totally slipped her mind. She held the door open for Tina, then flipped her sign to “Closed,” wondering where in the world she might have stashed Tina's chutney. Things had been distracting, to say the least, in the last two days. After poking around a bit, Piper found the jars right where they should have been, between sweet pickle relish and pepper relish, where she suspected Amy must have efficiently set them.

Piper slipped the two jars into a bag and handed it to Tina, who said, “I've been really concerned about Nate. He hasn't been arrested or anything, has he?”

“Not last I heard. But more reasons to charge him seem to be cropping up. We're only hoping they won't seem so to Sheriff Carlyle.”

“Oh, I hope so, too.” Tina's look of distress touched Piper. “I'm afraid I haven't picked up anything very useful yet from my breakfast or lunch customers,” Tina said. “Whenever I manage to bring Gordon Pfiefle into the conversation—which isn't all that easy,” she added with a laugh, “they get to complaining about how the price of food keeps going up. Nobody blames Gordon for the high costs, though. They generally find a way to pin it on Congress, and then the political grousing takes off.”

“Anything come up about Pfiefle's scratches?”

“One woman said she'd noticed them, but at other times, too, not just this weekend. Maybe they just have an ornery cat? Or he grows plants like roses with thorns in his yard?”

“Maybe.” Piper thought the Pfiefles' neighbor, Martha Smidley, might know a little more about that. A visit to the lady with a complimentary jar of piccalilli could be in order.

“I was wondering about Dennis Isley,” Piper said. “You said he didn't like Alan Rosemont. Was there anything that might have tipped him over the edge toward murder?”

“Oh, gosh, I don't think so. Dennis complains a lot. But I get the feeling he's used to life being a string of just one lousy thing after another. I doubt he'd ever get mad enough for murder.”

“When he came to fix your leaky pipe yesterday, did he mention where he had been late Friday night when Alan was murdered?”

“Hmm. Let me think. He was talking about baseball.” Tina brightened. “Yes, that was it. The Yankees played two nights in a row, Friday and Saturday. Both games ran late on TV, which is why he didn't appreciate me dragging him out early Sunday morning. And there was a fight in the stands during Friday night's game, which Dennis seemed to enjoy even more than the game. It sounded like he watched again Saturday night just hoping there'd be another fight.” Tina rolled her eyes.

“Well, I'll still keep him on my list of suspects for now. But Dennis Isley probably won't make my call list of handymen.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Sometimes, though, he's the only one available. If you need another suspect, Lynn Jackson did say she remembered a guy hanging around the fair on Friday, someone she never saw before. She said he looked up to no good.”

“Did she get anything that would help the sheriff, like a name or a license plate number?”

Tina shook her head. “'Fraid not. Only that he looked kind of scruffy and shifty. A youngish guy. Maybe someone else noticed him, too. I'll let you know if I hear more.”

As Piper let Tina out, a distant voice called, “Just a minute, there, young woman.” Charlotte Hosch was striding their way purposefully, and the sight made Piper want to step back into her shop and pull down the shade. Instead, she pasted on a polite smile and waited.

“You're going to have to do something about the horrendous odors coming from your shop,” Charlotte demanded, as she drew near.

“Odors?” Piper asked.

“Your pickling odors! Vinegar and that other stuff you cook with. They're flooding the entire neighborhood.”

Piper's smile stiffened. “I really don't think so, Charlotte.”

“They certainly are! It's horrible. Everyone on the street can smell it, and who's going to think of buying my candies when they're smelling pickles, I ask you. I won't have it. You've got to do something about it or I'll have to take matters in my own hands. You have fair warning!”

With that, Charlotte spun on her heel and marched away toward her own shop. Tina turned a sympathetic eye toward Piper. “She complained to me, too, about my fried onions. I wouldn't worry about it. There's nothing in the town regulations that say you can't have normal cooking odors coming from your establishment.”

“Even if there were,” Piper said, “I've taken pains to manage mine with a HEPA air cleaner. I don't want my own shop overwhelmed with the aroma of vinegar and spices. So I couldn't be choking the neighborhood with them, either.”

“Unfortunately, you probably haven't heard the last of it from Charlotte.” With that, Tina took off, and Piper locked up, thinking ahead to the next day when she and Amy planned to cook up a batch of summer savory wax beans. She pictured Charlotte Hosch sniffing outside her door, cell phone in hand and finger hovering over her call button for 911. Piper sighed.

• • •

T
he next morning, however, no SWAT team burst through the door as Amy and Piper worked in the shop's back room, following Aunt Judy's recipe, which Piper had tasted—and loved—Saturday night. The pint jars had just been taken from their boiling water bath to cool, and the two set about cleaning up the scraps and trimmings of wax beans and red peppers. Piper's air cleaner, she noted with satisfaction, had worked so well they hadn't even needed to open the windows and thus lose her cool, air-conditioned air—or flood the neighborhood with any odors.

“I can't wait to try these,” Amy said. “Adding that slice of gingerroot and a bay leaf to each jar along with all the other spices we simmered into the mix should make them totally delish.”

Piper was about to comment on the delicate flavor she'd tasted in Aunt Judy's batch, when she heard her front door open. She'd rigged a simple bell system the night before to cut off any chance of being caught unawares—singing or anything else—ever again, feeling proud of herself and pleased that those hours of following Uncle Frank around as a youngster while he did his farm repairs had paid off. The bell, attached to a wire that she'd strung through metal eyes along the ceiling of her shop, rang clearly in the back room, and two female voices chimed along with it, calling out, “Hellooo.”

“It's Erin and Megan,” Amy said, brightening, which Piper was glad to see. Though Amy had made a strong effort to be upbeat as she'd worked beside her, Piper could tell that she was feeling down from worry over Nate. Piper grabbed a towel to wipe her hands and followed Amy, who'd hurried out.

“We just came from my brother's office,” Megan said, referring to Ben Schaeffer. “I asked him point-blank who told him that Alan Rosemont had laughed in Nate's face when he didn't get the music camp job.”

“And?” Piper asked.

“And nothing!” Megan swiped her long blond hair off her neck in disgust. “You'd think he was CIA and I was asking him to divulge state secrets. He's an idiot.”

“No, he's not,” Erin argued softly. “He's just trying not to step on Sheriff Carlyle's toes by giving out information.”

“I'd like to stomp on
his
toes,” Megan said, and Piper realized how little resemblance she saw between Megan and her brother, either physically or personality wise. She could never imagine Ben Schaeffer threatening to stomp on anyone. Piper could, however, see him carefully writing up a warning that, if not followed, could lead to a significant fine—and take much satisfaction in having done his part toward making Cloverdale a safer place.

“Don't worry about pressing Ben for now,” Piper said. “If the story turns out to be a problem for Nate, he'll find out soon enough where it's coming from.”

“I just hate that anyone could think so badly of Nate,” Amy said. “If they took the time to really know him, they'd see how totally incapable he is of hurting anyone.” Amy looked so distraught that Megan and Erin closed in for a double hug.

“That's what we're trying to do,” Erin said, stepping back first. “We're talking to everyone who'll listen about all the great things Nate does. Like how he spent hours learning all those 1960s songs so he could sing them when the O'Neills celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary at A La Carte. Nobody paid him extra for that. He just thought it'd be a nice thing to do.”

“You guys are the greatest,” Amy said, her eyes shining.

“Say,” Piper said, “if you're going to keep Amy company for a while, I'm going to run out for a bit, okay?”

“Sure, no problem,” they answered practically in unison.

“Just call my cell if anything urgent comes up,” Piper told Amy as she shed her apron and grabbed a jar of piccalilli from the shelf. “I shouldn't be too long.” As she left, Piper saw Amy leading her friends to the back room to finish the cleanup rather than just stand and chat. The girl was worth her weight in gold.

Piper had looked up Gordon and Lyella Pfiefle's address the night before, then Martha Smidley's, which appeared to be on the opposite side of Locust Street. The direct way to Locust meant walking past Charlotte Hosch's candy shop, so she struck out on the longer route, having decided it was a fine day for a walk.

Locust Street, Piper soon found, was lined with a variety of brick and clapboard homes tucked cozily together and fronted with meticulously kept lawns. The Pfiefles' house was on a corner lot and therefore had a side yard as well. There were no thorny rosebushes that Piper could see, nor raspberry brambles, nor anything else particularly scratch producing. Just nice, soft grass edged with a few marigolds and other colorful and tidy annuals.

Piper turned to Martha Smidley's house, which sat directly opposite. It was similarly well kept with its healthy grass, sprinkling of flowers, and clean, white siding. The only thing remarkable about the place, Piper realized, was the aged face peering at her from the window. Piper gave a little wave and headed toward the door, which opened before she reached it.

“You're the woman at the library,” Martha said. She'd exchanged her wrinkled beige linen of the other day for an apple green housedress. Her feet were clad in sandals and white cotton socks.

“I am. I'm also Piper Lamb, and I've brought you a complimentary jar of piccalilli from my shop, Piper's Picklings.”

“Thank you.” Martha smiled as she took the jar, but her sharp eyes examined Piper closely. “I had a feeling you might stop by. Come in.”

Martha's living room contained a collection of mix-and-match furniture—a sofa, upholstered chairs, an ancient, console television set—that looked to have been acquired over decades. Interestingly, one comfy-looking chair was turned toward the large bay window that was free of view-blocking draperies or sheers.

“Piccalilli,” Martha said, turning the jar about. “I haven't had that for ages. This will be a nice treat. Would you care for some iced tea?”

“That would be great, thank you.”

Martha trundled off to her kitchen, and Piper took a seat on the plump, brown and gold–printed sofa. She glanced around, seeing a sprinkling of knickknacks and family photos. On the padded cushion of the bay window perched a pair of binoculars.

“Here we are,” Martha said, carrying a tray with two large glasses of tea and a plate of cookies. Piper jumped up to take it from the elderly woman and set it on the coffee table for her. “Thank you. It's always nice to get company during the day. So many of the younger people are off at jobs nowadays. How did you manage to leave your shop?”

“I have a great assistant,” Piper said. She handed a glass of tea to Martha and took the second. “Amy Carlyle.”

“Oh yes. The sheriff's daughter. She used to babysit for the Crandalls down the street. I don't think they were aware that her two friends, Megan Schaeffer and Erin Healy, sometimes joined her. But I don't suppose there was any harm in it, do you?”

Knowing Amy, she had most likely cleared her friends' visits with the Crandalls, but Piper said, “Probably not. You obviously keep an eye on things, Mrs. Smidley.” Piper nodded toward the binoculars.

“I like to know what's going on in my neighborhood. You hear about burglars pulling moving vans up to houses where nobody's home and pretending they have the right to walk off with everything. That won't happen around here. I know who's moving and who's not, as well as who's a legitimate house painter or gutter cleaner and who isn't. Nobody will be putting up ladders where they shouldn't on my street!”

Was Martha Smidley possibly related to Ben Schaeffer? Piper wondered. She took a sip of her tea and said, “That's very conscientious of you. At the library you mentioned being aware of the Pfiefles' routines. I see you have a clear view of their place.”

“I do.” Martha smiled. “Of course, I wouldn't dream of invading anyone's privacy.”

“Of course not.”

“But I can't help seeing what's right before my eyes, can I?”

“Certainly not.”

“And I did notice that their lights were on the night of Alan Rosemont's murder—I assume that's what you're interested in—though I didn't see them leave.” Martha took a sip of her tea. “That's not to say they—or he—couldn't have left the house. It's just that it's impossible for me to see everything.” She sighed. “Like that time Gordon got into a shouting match with Hal Brockway. Unfortunately, I was at the doctor's that morning.” She gestured vaguely toward her abdomen, indicating a not-to-be-mentioned ailment in that area.