The Pickled Piper (8 page)

“What was it about? The shouting match, I mean.”

“Well,” Martha said, leaning forward, “it seems the Brockway boy—a horrible child, if you ask me—trampled over Lyella's newly planted flowers in pursuit of a soccer ball, or, more likely, on purpose. When she called him out on it, he responded in an extremely rude way. The father either denied the incident or claimed it was no big thing.” Martha's eyes snapped in indignation as she straightened her back. “My belief is it was the latter. After all, where did the child learn his ways? This infuriated Gordon and very nearly, from what I heard, led to a physical fight. As I said before, Gordon worships the very ground Lyella walks on and is very protective of her.”

“So Gordon Pfiefle has a temper?”

Martha nodded firmly. “He keeps it in check most of the time. But when it comes to standing up for Lyella, well, I'd have to say Hal Brockway had a lucky day, that morning.”

O
n her way back to the shop, Piper mulled over her conversation with Martha Smidley, who had, much to her regret, been unable to come up with a good explanation for the scratches on Gordon Pfiefle's neck and face. No ill-tempered cat or other pets, no habit of hiking through brushy terrain. Nothing.

She suddenly spotted Sheriff Carlyle standing near his patrol car, chatting on the sidewalk with Jim Reilly, one of Cloverdale's barbers. Piper slowed, planning to catch the sheriff when he'd finished. She pretended interest in a pair of lavender, multi-strapped, stiletto-heeled sandals (not quite her style) displayed in a shoe store's window. When she heard, “Okay, Jim, see you later,” and saw Jim Reilly disappear into his barbershop, she hurried forward and called out, “Sheriff?”

Sheriff Carlyle turned. “Well, good day, Miss Piper,” he said, touching his hat. “How are you today? My little girl watching your shop?”

“She is, Sheriff. Amy also has Megan and Erin with her.”

The sheriff chuckled. “Those three never get too far apart, do they?”

“Sheriff, I've been talking with a few people since Alan Rosemont's murder.”

“Now, don't let anyone upset you, Miss Piper. We know it was just your bad luck that Alan's body was left in your pickle barrel. No one should be blaming you the least bit for what happened. We're hot on the trail of knowing exactly what happened.”

“I know you'll come up with the truth, Sheriff. I just thought I should tell you that Gordon Pfiefle's name has come up in this regard.”

“Gordon?”

“You know, of course, he's married to Lyella Pfiefle, the librarian whose building Alan Rosemont painted that terrible pink color. Gordon, I understand, is quite defensive of Lyella, and he's known to be willing to fight on her behalf. I wondered if he might have confronted Alan about the library situation late Friday night on the fairgrounds? I've seen Alan's temper, and I can imagine any confrontation with him turning ugly.”

The sheriff looked thoughtful. “I hope these people you've been talking to haven't been tossing around accusations.”

“No, nothing to that level. Because, of course, unless there's concrete evidence pointing to a particular person, nobody would want to upset anyone's life that way.”

“Understood. Ah, Piper,” the sheriff said—and Piper noticed her demotion from “Miss”—“I'm sure my daughter has given you an earful about the part of our investigation that's involved her friend, Nate Purdy. I'm very sorry that she's upset, but as I've assured her, and I'm now assuring you, we will not pass over anyone simply to avoid upsetting those near and dear to us.”

“I know you won't, Sheriff. Which is exactly why I'm passing on what I've learned about Gordon Pfiefle. He seems to be a well-liked man, and I'm sure Lyella, in particular, won't be happy if you question him about Alan Rosemont. But as you said, you'll need to be thorough in your investigation.”

Sheriff Carlyle's face suddenly looked like he had simultaneously bitten into a sweet spiced apple and a tart mustard pickle. “I thank you for your confidence,” he said politely, “and for the information. It will be dealt with appropriately.”

With that, the sheriff touched his hat once more and climbed into his patrol car. Piper watched him drive off, hoping that his definition of appropriate matched hers but having the feeling she'd just been dismissed. Don't call us, we'll call you.

A glance at her watch made her gulp. It was almost time for Amy to leave for her second job. Piper took off, taking the direct route and picking up her already swift pace significantly as she passed Charlotte's Chocolates and Confections. When she hurried into Piper's Picklings, Amy appeared at the doorway to the back room, looking upset.

“I know. I'm late. I'm so sorry—” Piper began, but Amy waved her hands, stopping her.

“No, no! That's not the problem. Come look.” She spun around and Piper followed, wondering what was wrong.

“Erin and Megan helped me clean up back here, and I dumped all the garbage into the can out back, like we always do. After they left—just a few minutes ago—I found a bit of trash we'd overlooked, so I carried it out. See what I found?” Amy opened the outside door and stepped aside for Piper to see. The garbage can had been turned upside down and all its contents—piles of vegetable scraps and soggy papers—were spread across the alley pavement. Piper gasped at the mess.

“What happened?”

“I have no idea. I didn't hear a thing.”

“Kids?” Piper asked.

“That was my first thought, but look.” Amy pointed to the garbage cans up and down the alley behind other establishments. All were upright and covered. Piper's was the only mess. “Kids in the mood for this kind of mischief would have tipped over as many as they could.”

Amy looked at Piper worriedly. “I think someone's got it in for you.”

• • •

P
iper scurried about her upstairs apartment, running late getting ready for her date with Will Burchett. Was it a date? She wasn't really sure. Her hair was still wet and wrapped in a towel from her shower. Should she pull it back or leave it down? And what did one wear for a tour of a Christmas tree farm? Tinsel?

She grabbed a bite of the chicken sandwich from the plate on her bed as she switched on her hair dryer. She'd been late closing up the shop because of two lingering, chatty customers, then still had to clean up the garbage disaster in the alley. Amy had offered to do it, but Piper shooed her off to her restaurant job. When Piper finally made it up to her apartment, a sandwich was all she'd had time to throw together before jumping into the shower, and Will would be there in minutes!

Settle down
, Piper ordered herself. Will could wait in her small living room if he had to. However, someone had to open the door to let him in, and guess who that someone would be? Did she really want his first sight of her to be in her ratty bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her head? Piper switched the hair dryer to high and waved it furiously at her hair.

When the doorbell rang, Piper had somehow managed to get herself dried and dressed, as well as powdered and glossed. She took a deep breath, then walked slowly down the steps to her apartment's street door.

“Hi,” Will said. “Sorry, I'm a little late. A delivery truck drove up just as I was ready to leave.”

“Oh, no problem,” Piper said smoothly and wished multiple blessings on that timely deliveryman. “Shall we go?”

As she buckled herself into the passenger seat of Will's green van, Piper felt herself relax. Something about Will made that very easy. She was glad she'd decided to go with shorts, sneakers, and her favorite yellow tee, which Scott had once said made her brown eyes look like deep, dark chocolate (but she wasn't going to think of Scott right then). Will had dressed just as casually, a signal that the evening would be a simple tour of his farm and a prompt return home, which was fine. It was a nice evening to be out.

“So,” she said as he slid into the driver's seat, “Aunt Judy said you bought the Christmas tree farm a couple of years ago?”

“Right. It was pure luck that I happened to be in the market at the same time the Andersons were ready to sell.” He put his van in gear. “The farm was in great shape, so taking it over went very smoothly, and I was able to get started right away on the changes I wanted to make.”

Will drove down Beech Street for a few blocks, then turned toward the highway. Piper's stomach gurgled, a complaint, probably, on the recent scarfing down of her sandwich, and she was glad the van's motor was on the loud side.

“I tried those zucchini pickles, by the way,” Will said.

She turned to him with a smile. “And?”

He grinned. “Not bad.”

Piper laughed. “Not bad? Well, I'll take that as high praise from someone who was extremely skeptical of them.”

“My apologies. My mother would probably tell you I was a picky eater as a kid, though I always thought of it as being sensibly cautious. I think I've grown out of most of that, but those pickles caught me by surprise.”

“Then I'm honored that you decided to risk it.” Piper thought of Scott's fondness for sushi, one more difference between the two men since she couldn't picture Will clamping chopsticks around a salmon and seaweed sushi roll. But then, sushi had never been a favorite of hers, now that she thought of it. She had only tolerated it for Scott's sake.

They talked about Will's family—one older brother and a younger sister—and where he'd grown up—Vermont—then how he became interested in Christmas tree farming—a college major in plant sciences, which ultimately convinced him he preferred hands-on to theoretical work, specifically with Christmas trees.

By the time they got through all that, they'd arrived at the turnoff for Will's farm, marked by a colorful sign pointing to Burchett Tree Farm and Christmas Shop. As they drove up the long, private road, memories of Piper's childhood visit to the place with Uncle Frank and Aunt Judy came floating back—except that all the trees had looked a lot bigger to her eight-year-old self.

“How long does it take to grow a Christmas tree?” she asked.

“About ten years until it's ready to cut.”

“Wow. So I guess that's why you'd want a farm that's already established?”

Will nodded with a smile. “It helps.”

The top of the road widened into a small, graveled parking lot. “We'll switch here,” Will said, “to something that'll handle the bumps in the field better. It's sturdy but doesn't look that great, so I generally drive the van into town.” Piper walked with Will over to a mud-splattered, scraped, and dented four-wheeler, then held on for dear life as they bounced their way in it to the various fields, Will pointing out plantings of firs, spruce, and white pines. The scents coming from the dark green trees were wonderful, and Piper commented on it.

“My farm is all organic,” Will told her. “That's important to me, when you think of people bringing one of these trees into their homes. I wouldn't want those branches loaded with pesticides.”

“Some people say they have artificial trees because they hate the thought of cutting down a live tree for a few weeks' decoration.”

Will laughed. “I've heard that before. Christmas trees are planted specifically for cutting. Nobody's clearing wild forests. And when a live tree is taken down after Christmas, it gets ground up into biodegradable mulch. How long do they think those artificial trees sit in a landfill once they toss them out?”

“Good point,” Piper said, and thought a tad guiltily about the plastic tree she'd owned but had at least passed on to the girl taking over her apartment in Albany instead of dumping it. Would that new tenant also pass it on when her time came to move? She hoped so.

Will drove her through fields he said were designated for “cut your own” customers, and much larger fields of trees that would be cut in late fall by crews and shipped off to other vendors. He talked about the new netting and tie-down equipment he'd invested in, and Piper found, to her surprise, that a subject she'd never dreamed could be interesting actually was. Will's enthusiasm probably had a lot to do with it, and she liked the idea of someone investing their time and savings into doing something they really loved—much like herself. Will Burchett also had obviously discovered “who he was,” as opposed to Scott, who was currently on the other side of the world trying to figure that out.

The tour ended at a small building Will said he'd put up just that year. “The Burchett Christmas Gift Shop,” he announced with a wave. “We'll offer hot and cold refreshments during our busy season, when I'll also have someone here to handle it. Right now, all I can offer is Coke, 7 Up, and a variety of chips.”

“Sounds great,” Piper said, pleased at the prospect of extending her time with Will. The more she learned about him, the better she liked him.

Will pointed her to a small round table with two wire-backed chairs as he went to gather their snacks. The gift shop had a counter where Piper imagined Will's future employee would dispense food and drink orders to families hungry after tramping through the fields in search of the perfect tree. The shelves throughout the shop currently held only a few sealed cardboard boxes, but she could picture them loaded with Christmas knickknacks and toys, the entire shop decorated with fresh greens and lights, as well as smelling of pine, and maybe cinnamon and cloves. The image made her smile.

Will brought the sodas and chips and sat down.

“You have a wonderful place, Will,” Piper said truthfully.

Will beamed. “It's a lot of hard work, but I love it. But now it's your turn. Tell me all about how you ended up in Cloverdale with your pickling shop.”

Piper smiled, certain he didn't really want to know about all the ins and outs of her developing love of the pickling process, learned in Aunt Judy's kitchen and fueled by Uncle Frank's farm-grown vegetables. She gave him the condensed version, though, tossing in mention of her long engagement to Scott, which she made clear no longer existed. Will nodded without comment, but she thought she saw a smile in his eyes.

Eventually, the conversation worked its way, between crunches on BBQ-flavored corn chips and salt and vinegar crinkle cuts, to Alan Rosemont's unsolved murder.

“I've been looking around for possible suspects, for Amy's sake,” Piper said. “And for mine, too,” she admitted. “I just can't see Nate Purdy as the guilty one, despite Sheriff Carlyle's apparent interest in him.”

“Isn't Sheriff Carlyle Amy's father?”

Piper nodded. “He's doing his best to keep that fact from influencing him. I just hope he isn't leaning too far in the other direction in his efforts to be impartial.” She took a swallow of her soda.