The Pickled Piper Page 2

  “Not such a bad thing,” Amy said. “But I wouldn’t worry about leftovers. I’d worry about running out.”

  “Ah, the optimism of youth!” Piper said, laughing as she turned back to arranging her jars.

  “I’m nearly twenty-one!” Amy protested, handing Piper two jars of okra. “And you’re not exactly decrepit.”

  “No.” Piper grinned. “Not exactly. But the nine or so years I have on you just might give me a slightly more realistic view of things.” Like the realization that spending your life catering to someone else’s dreams can be a huge waste of time.

  “Well, I don’t care how old I get, I’ll never stop believing that just about anything can work out if you want it badly enough.”

  Piper smiled noncommittally and took a third jar from Amy’s hands. She privately hoped, however, that when—not if—Amy learned otherwise, it wouldn’t be too painful.

  2

  The fair was in full swing, with crowds of families milling about between rides, livestock exhibits, and vendors, some holding bags of their purchases.

  Piper’s booth, to her delight, was drawing brisk sales, both from her pickle barrel and one other surprising item—her pickled watermelon. On an impulse, she’d set a couple of jars on the front counter, next to the brochures she’d printed up to introduce her shop. The jars piqued plenty of interest, and Piper soon found herself explaining to many a customer that these were in fact pickles made from watermelon rinds, and that the sweet, tangy flavor came from the combination of vinegar, brown sugar, sliced lemon, cinnamon, allspice, and cloves. Usually before she’d run through the entire list of ingredients, hands would dip into pockets or purses to buy, and Amy would be reaching for replacements from the back.

  Next in line of popularity were Piper’s boxes and packets of spices, which were eye-catching to anyone interested in preserving their own delicious bounty of garden produce. Piper had just bagged up one such purchase when a male to her right said in a deep, rolling voice, “Hi there, sugarplum.” A salt-and-pepper-haired man with a slight paunch stood on the other side of the counter, his thumbs hooked into the belt of his black uniform.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Amy said. She leaned over to plant an affectionate kiss on Sheriff Carlyle’s cheek. “But please,” she begged in a low voice, “don’t call me sugarplum in public.”

  “Hello, Amy.” Piper hadn’t noticed the man next to the sheriff until he spoke. Younger, dark-haired, and an inch or two taller than the sheriff, he wore what Piper at first took to be a deputy’s uniform until she spotted the badge on the sleeve that said “Auxiliary Officer.” He was gazing at Amy with near puppy-dog eagerness.

  “Hi, Ben,” Amy said much more casually, as though greeting an often-seen older cousin. “I see you’re helping Dad for the weekend.” She turned to Piper. “You know my dad, but have you met Ben Schaeffer?”

  “No, I haven’t. How do you do?” Piper extended a hand to the man who wrenched his gaze away from Amy with obvious effort. “What is an auxiliary officer?” she asked after his quick handshake.

  “It’s a new volunteer program,” Sheriff Carlyle explained. “Ben, here, is our top man. The volunteers fill in a few hours a week as an extra set of eyes and ears for the department.”

  “Do you make arrests?”

  “Oh no,” Ben assured her. He had pulled himself up a little straighter and tucked his shirt in a bit tighter. “But we’ll definitely issue warnings to speeders if we catch them on radar.”

  “The auxiliary officers operate the radar guns from our squad cars,” Sheriff Carlyle informed her. “Just seeing the cars parked along the highway works to slow down most traffic. They also pitch in on things like directing traffic. It really helps free up my deputies.”

  “Sounds like a great program.”

  Both the sheriff and Ben voiced agreement, but Piper noticed Ben’s gaze had turned back to Amy. Amy, however, was looking over his shoulder into the crowd.

  “Here comes your Aunt Judy,” she said, “and Nate!”

  The faces of both men darkened perceptively before they turned. Piper didn’t believe for a moment it was because of Aunt Judy, who was just about the best-loved person in Cloverdale. So the negativity must have been meant for Nate.

  “You should see Alice Kippler’s peach pies!” Aunt Judy exclaimed as she came near. “Absolutely beautiful. They’ll win a prize for sure. Oh, hello, Sheriff Carlyle. And Ben! How nice to see you both.”

  The sheriff and Ben greeted Aunt Judy warmly but barely managed a nod for Nate. Nate seemed blissfully unaware, having quickly circled around to Amy. The sheriff continued to respond amiably to Aunt Judy’s chatter, but Piper saw Ben watching Amy and Nate, and the look on his face, though showing dislike of Nate, included enough pain to make Piper’s own heart ache for him.

  The man was obviously crazy about Amy, yet Amy seemed oblivious. Each nod of her head toward the young musician, each laugh at Nate’s jokes or touch of his arm made the auxiliary officer wince. Piper saw the sheriff glance Ben’s way then take in Amy and Nate with a shake of his head. Sheriff Carlyle at least was aware of Ben’s feelings, even if his daughter was not. And he clearly didn’t care much for her leanings toward Nate.

  • • •

  Later on, during the late afternoon lull, Piper found a chance to talk to Amy about what she had observed. Amy would be taking off soon for her job at A La Carte and was checking for any last-minute things she could do.

  “So, Ben Schaeffer,” Piper said, plowing right in. “I guess you’ve known him a long time?”

  “Ben?” Amy pulled a handful of brochures from their under-counter box and started refilling the wire “Take One” holders. “Oh, sure. I’ve known him, like, forever. He’s my friend Megan’s older brother.”

  “Ah, Megan Schaeffer. I should have connected the name. How much older?”

  “Gee, let me think. He was graduating from college when we were sixteen, I remember. So he must be . . . twenty-seven!”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am. Twenty-seven isn’t that old. But Ben always seemed like one of the grown-ups when I was just a kid showing up at Megan’s to play. And he spends so much time with my dad. I suppose that makes me think of him as part of Dad’s generation. But he’s only twenty-seven. Wow!” Amy shook her head.

  “What does he do when he’s not volunteering for the sheriff’s department?”

  “Ben has his own insurance office. It’s over on Beech Street near the bank.”

  “Very enterprising.” And possibly very dull and mundane to someone like Amy, who clearly leaned toward the more creative things in life. Her father, however, might see it very differently, caring more for the financial stability of anyone showing interest in his daughter. Something he clearly wasn’t seeing in Nate Purdy.

  Amy’s thoughts had clearly left Ben for Nate, too, though in a much more upbeat way. She checked her watch, saying, “Nate should be here any minute to ride with me over to A La Carte.”

  “He’s performing tonight?”

  “No, they canceled tonight, figuring a low turnout because of the fair. But he needs to pick up his guitar to practice some new material.” She scanned the crowd, frowning as she didn’t see him. “He really could have used the talent show gig, you know. A La Carte doesn’t pay all that much. But Alan Rosemont has the fair organizers under his thumb, just like he has most everyone else around here.”

  The name started ringing more bells for Piper. “Is Rosemont on the town council?”

  “Uh-huh. And you’d think he was elected mayor by the number of times he manages to get his way on council decisions. Dad’s been aggravated more than once because of his penny-pinching on things that affect his department.”

  “Tina Carson, the woman who just opened the coffee shop down the street from me, also had problems with him, I remember now. Rosemont felt that part of town ha
d enough eateries and wanted to block approval for her permit.”

  “I’m not surprised. But she got to open her shop after all.”

  “Right, after a major struggle.”

  “Oh, there’s Nate!” Amy reached down to grab her purse from under the counter.

  Piper looked over to see Nate winding his way through the crowd. He was perhaps thirty feet away when she heard someone call out sharply, “Purdy!” Nate stopped and looked to his left. Piper followed his gaze to see a large man of about fifty dressed in a Scottish kilt and tasseled socks closing in on the musician. She caught her breath as she observed the dark look on the man’s face and his clenched hands. Several people in his path scattered out of the way.

  “Who is that?” Piper asked, though from the costume she thought she could guess.

  “Oh Lord. It’s Alan Rosemont. What does he want?”

  “Trouble, it looks like.”

  Rosemont’s face was florid as he shouted at Nate, shaking a fist. “I want you to keep away from my shop from now on!” he said. “You cost me a major sale, putting your worthless two cents in when nobody asked you. You wouldn’t know a samurai sword from a Swiss Army knife.”

  Nate’s face flushed. “I know enough to tell what’s genuine and what’s not.”

  “Oh yeah? And you’ve been handling antiques for how long?” Rosemont asked with a sneer. He had now closed in on Nate, but still shouted. “You’re nothing but a deadbeat troublemaker, Purdy, poking your nose into other people’s business. We don’t need your kind here.”

  “My kind?” Nate drew in a deep breath before asking, “You mean someone who hates to see a tourist being suckered? Or do you mean someone who actually knows a thing or two about music and might run a decent talent show?”

  “Oh, so you’re mad you didn’t get the MC spot? Too bad. You can’t just show up out of nowhere and take things over, you know. It doesn’t work that way, buddy. The job goes to the best man, around here.”

  Piper watched with growing concern. If she didn’t know better she would have sworn she saw steam begin to rise from Nate’s head. The area around the two had cleared as people stepped back but stayed near enough to watch.

  “Nate,” Amy said in a low, worried voice, “let it be.”

  But Nate, despite a visible struggle, apparently couldn’t. “Don’t worry, Rosemont, you’ll probably always keep your MC spot. But only because you’ve bullied your way into it. Not because you’re any good.”

  Rosemont’s already florid face turned purple. “Why you little—” he cried, swinging hard at Nate, who easily sidestepped the clumsily thrown right.

  “Fight! Fight!” a high-pitched voice pealed from the crowd.

  “Nate! No!” Amy cried.

  Nate turned toward Amy. Rosemont was bouncing on his feet, both fists raised and ready, but looking somewhat worried—and in his kilt, sagging as it was under a significant paunch, just a bit ridiculous.

  Nate glanced from Rosemont back to Amy, then stalked away toward Piper’s booth, clearly simmering. “Let’s go,” he said to Amy, who grabbed her purse and dashed out from behind the counter. The two took off, and the crowd, disappointed, began to disperse. When Piper looked back, Alan Rosemont was nowhere to be seen.

  • • •

  “A grown man making such a scene in public,” Aunt Judy said, shaking her head and bouncing her short white curls. She’d joined Piper at the booth not long after Amy and Nate hurriedly left, holding her dog, Jack, on a leash. Jack, a black-and-white mixed breed, had shown up at their farm several weeks ago, fur matted and emaciated, and had stayed ever since.

  “I asked Frank to bring Jack along when he came to the fair,” her aunt explained, looking fondly at the pet, who actually seemed to be smiling back. “I hated to leave him alone all day. We’ll take turns looking after him, today.” She leaned down to ruffle Jack’s now-shiny fur and pat his plumped-up side. “I know he’ll behave because he’s such a good dog, aren’t you?” Jack wagged his fluffy tail and yipped apparent agreement.

  “As far as Alan’s concerned,” Aunt Judy said, “I’m sure that losing a sale is annoying. But why broadcast it to the world? And is it really that important who gets to direct a talent show?”

  “That part does sound a bit middle school,” Piper agreed, “though for Nate the added income was important. I doubt that was Rosemont’s concern, which makes me wonder what’s truly behind his anger.” Piper’s thoughts flashed to Ben Schaeffer. “He wouldn’t have an interest in Amy, would he?”

  “Amy’s half his age and then some!” Aunt Judy protested, then added, “Not that that always means anything. But no, dear. I don’t think so. Alan has been seeing Brenda Franklin fairly steadily. At least where age is concerned, she’s more his type.”

  “At least agewise? Sounds like you have reservations on the rest of that relationship.”

  “Well, it’s not for me to say, is it? It’s just, oh, Alan Rosemont is a man who likes to have his own way. I suppose that’s what riled him up about Nate, the fact that anyone would challenge him on anything whatsoever.”

  “Amy said he’s led the talent show since caveman days.”

  Aunt Judy smiled. “Not quite. He’s only been here in Cloverdale for—let me see—ten years?”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s right. He took over Bob MacAulay’s hardware store space to open his antique shop when Bob decided to close up and retire to Florida. That was ten years ago.”

  “He certainly seems to have developed plenty of influence in Cloverdale in that amount of time. I mean, he’s got a powerful position on the town council, and he’s obviously forged strong connections with the decision makers of the fair.”

  “That he has.” Aunt Judy’s brows pulled together with concern.

  Piper looked off in the direction that Nate had gone with Amy. How badly might it impact that young musician, she wondered, that he had managed to cross someone like Alan Rosemont? But then she shook her head. It was, after all, just one argument between them. In a day or two, everyone involved would forget about their differences and move on.

  Or so she hoped.

  3

  “Why don’t you take a break, Piper?” Aunt Judy suggested. “I’ll be glad to watch the booth for you; that is, if you trust me to handle it?”

  Piper laughed. “Since you’re the one who taught me everything I know about pickling, I don’t think you’d have any trouble. But if you’re sure you don’t mind, I’d love to find a quiet place to sit down. Just for a few minutes.”

  “Then go. Scoot!” Aunt Judy made sweeping motions with her hands. “Jack can lie here in the shade and people watch. You’ll like that, won’t you, Jack?” Currently crunching on the dog biscuit Aunt Judy had slipped him, Jack seemed just fine with the arrangement. A thoughtful look crossed Aunt Judy’s face. “There’s a nice, shady bench behind the youth group’s concession stand. You could grab something cool to drink there and relax.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Oh, and would you mind giving Will Burchett a message for me while you’re there?”

  “Sure. Who’s Will Burchett?”

  “Will bought the Christmas tree farm from the Andersons two years ago. He’s running the barbecue grill at the stand today, to help out with the fund-raising. Tell him if he runs low on onions for the barbecue, I threw a couple of bags in the truck. He can just call Frank or me if he needs them.”

  “Okay. See you in a bit.”

  “Take your time,” her aunt called out as Piper took off in the direction of the food concessions and the youth group stand. She didn’t have to search hard, as the aroma of spicy barbecue soon wafted her way, allowing her to follow her nose.

  She waited her turn at the counter, watching as a busy group of teens filled orders for hungry fairgoers, looking like they were having a great
time while raising money for their organization. They scuttled back and forth between the front counter and a smoke-spewing grill at the rear, manned by someone in a blue T-shirt who Piper assumed was Will Burchett.

  When she got her tall cup of lemonade, Piper went around to the back to deliver her aunt’s message. She’d been expecting someone about Uncle Frank’s age, but the closer she got, the more off the mark she realized she’d been.

  “Will Burchett?” she asked of the tall man whose back was to her. The T-shirt topped trim khaki shorts, and the arms wielding the cooking tongs were muscular and tanned. A huge, sauce-stained apron was tied at his back.

  “Be right with you,” a baritone voice answered as Burchett flipped two meaty ribs and slathered them with thick red sauce. He set his tongs down and turned around.

  Piper gazed up at the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, set into an even-featured face. But what she liked most was the solid, open expression on that face, a kind of what-you-see-is-what-you-get, no-games look. She smiled.

  “Judy Lamb asked me to tell you she has plenty of onions on hand, and you can call her or my Uncle Frank whenever you need them.”

  “Great! You’re their niece?”

  Piper held out her hand. “Piper Lamb. I have a pickling booth across that way.”

  Burchett grabbed a towel to wipe his hands before shaking hers. “Nice to meet you.” He kept on shaking. “Your aunt mentioned you, and I meant to stop by your shop sometime. But things have been kind of busy at the tree farm.”

  “Yes, I can imagine there’s a lot to do.” Piper thought she should probably pull her hand back, but it felt really nice enveloped in his large one.

  “Mr. Burchett? Two more burgers?”

  “Coming up, Shawn.” Burchett released Piper’s hand and slapped two beef patties on his grill.

  “I’ll get out of your way,” Piper said, stepping back reluctantly.

  “Ah, right. Sorry. Got to keep up with this. But, hey, thank your aunt for me. And I, ah, I’ll stop by at your shop sometime and say hello.”