License to Dill Page 6

  Ever since her first summer spent there as a child, Piper had come to rely on the calm common sense that reigned at the farm. Her own parents, while loving, had always been much more absorbed with the past than the present. As archaeologists, of course, that was probably a given. But to an archaeologist’s daughter that often meant growing up without a lot of helpful advice beyond “study hard” or “organize your collections.” Where were Peter and Sheila Lamb now? Bulgaria, or had they finished up there? Her parents were hard to keep track of, working as they usually did in remote, out-of-touch areas.

  But two people in Piper’s life who were nearly always available were the ones she was heading for now, hoping they could help her sort out an event that, while tragic in itself, could have grim consequences extending far beyond Conti himself.

  Piper took back roads to get to the farm, unwilling to drive past Gerald Standley’s dill field and view the clutch of official vehicles she knew would be there. As she turned into the farm’s driveway, though, she realized with a start that her aunt and uncle might not be home. In her rush, she hadn’t thought to call and check. But the sight of Aunt Judy’s blue Equinox parked in its usual place immediately erased that concern.

  Piper pulled onto the graveled parking area and heard Jack, the black-and-white mix-breed stray her aunt and uncle had adopted, barking. As she climbed out, he scurried up for an ear rub, his tail wagging furiously. Aunt Judy appeared from behind the house, pulling off gardening gloves, her face solemn.

  “We called, but you must have already left,” she said. “I’m glad it was to come here.” Piper met her halfway and they hugged. “Want to come inside?” her aunt asked.

  “I’m just as glad to help you weed if that’s what you were doing.”

  Aunt Judy did a quick check of Piper’s jeans and rolled-sleeve shirt—acceptable weeding attire, apparently—and nodded. “That would be lovely,” she said. “You heard about poor Raffaele I take it?” she asked, turning to lead the way to the kitchen garden that she kept filled each year with vegetables and herbs for her cooking and canning.

  “Amy called,” Piper said. “How did you hear?”

  “Bill Vanderveer. He was driving by the dill field this morning on his way back from church—he goes early.” Aunt Judy tsked. “What a thing to happen on a Sunday morning—or any morning, for that matter.”

  She found an extra pair of gardening gloves and a trowel in the small shed and handed them to Piper. “My squashes have been running rampant,” she said, bringing up a small smile. “It’s like they sense winter is getting closer and are getting in as much growing as they can. But so are the weeds. I’ve been working on this row,” she said, pointing to a half-tidied area. “Pick any spot you like. There’s an extra basket over there if you want it.”

  Piper knew the drill, having worked beside Aunt Judy during many a hot summer. She also knew that weeding was one way her aunt dealt with a worrying situation—that, and scrubbing floors—so she wasn’t at all surprised to find her hard at work. Piper grabbed a basket, pulled on her gloves, and got down on her knees, thankful at least that the day was mild enough to be outdoors. She wasn’t particularly fond of scrubbing floors.

  They worked quietly for a few moments until Piper said, “What worries me is where Conti was found.”

  Aunt Judy looked up. “That’s the first thing we thought of, too. Uncle Frank is over there now, on the off chance he can see Gerald.”

  Piper sat back on her heels. “I can’t imagine Gerald Standley capable of any sort of violence, can you? He’s always been the good-natured farmer who grew excellent dill. But I was there when Raffaele Conti stepped off the team bus, and I witnessed Gerald’s fury at sight of the man. I’ve also learned some of the history between them. Then there’s the way last night’s game ended, which upset plenty of people who didn’t have nearly as much of a stake in it. Do you think, on top of everything else, that could have pushed Gerald over the edge?”

  “It’s so hard to say,” Aunt Judy said, her brow puckered. “Gerald has always been even tempered about the usual, everyday things. But when it came to soccer? Or his family? If Raffaele Conti crossed the line with both . . .” Aunt Judy shook her head. “But I don’t think it’s wise to speculate on anything at this point, do you? There’s so much more we’d need to know.”

  “You’re right.” Piper pulled up a handful of weeds and plopped them into her basket. “For all we know the sheriff may have found evidence pointing to someone else altogether. Or even that it was suicide.” Though from what Piper knew of Conti, he was a man much too pleased with himself to commit suicide—especially in a dill field. That didn’t keep her from holding on to the possibility, however unrealistic it might be.

  Both heads turned as they heard the sound of a motor coming up the driveway. Jack, who’d been dozing in a nearby patch of sun, was on his feet in an instant.

  “That sounds like Frank’s truck,” Aunt Judy said, and she and Piper pulled themselves up—a little less briskly than Jack—and followed him to the front of the house. Uncle Frank was climbing out of his pickup when they got there.

  “What did you find out?” Aunt Judy asked.

  Uncle Frank shook his head. “Not much.” He pulled off his John Deere cap and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Conti’s rental car was on the shoulder of the road, next to the Standley’s field. Looked like it had a flat.”

  “Might he have been going for help?” Aunt Judy asked.

  “Possible, I suppose, but why not simply call for help on his cell phone? Why head into the field? I didn’t get to see Gerald or Denise.” He looked from Aunt Judy to Piper, then back again.

  “I’m pretty worried about them,” he said.

  Piper stayed at the farm, aware, for one thing, that it was the best place to be for hearing news, at least on a Sunday. Once her shop reopened the next day, she knew she’d get a steady flow of information, some of it even reliable. But for the time being, Uncle Frank and Aunt Judy would hear from their many friends around the town as quickly as there was any news to spread.

  Her main reason, though, for staying nearby was seeing that her aunt and uncle wanted her to. A murder occurring nearby was upsetting enough. But the murder of a man they’d known in his youth was doubly so. The connection—at least by location—to a good friend tripled the stakes. Neither Uncle Frank nor Aunt Judy was overly emotional, but Piper could read the worry in their actions. Uncle Frank sat on a stump and sharpened tools that didn’t appear to need sharpening, while Aunt Judy pulled at weeds with extra vigor—all between answering calls to their cell phones, which only added to their tension.

  “Bill says the body’s been taken off, but the sheriff’s car is still at the house,” Uncle Frank said at one point.

  A few minutes later, Aunt Judy reported that Trish Warren had tried to see Denise Standley but had been turned away by a deputy

  “Who found the body?” Piper asked.

  Uncle Frank shook his head. “Don’t know. Maybe someone spotted the car and followed a trail in the field?”

  “Oh, I hope it wasn’t Denise who found him,” Aunt Judy said. “Or Miranda!”

  Piper hoped it wasn’t Gerald Standley who reported finding the body. She remembered the grilling she’d gotten after finding Brenda Franklin’s body some weeks back. The first person on the scene was an automatic suspect, she knew, and Piper hadn’t had anywhere near the history with Brenda that Gerald had with Conti.

  Uncle Frank’s phone rang, and Piper waited to hear what that call would bring. Her uncle’s brow furrowed as he listened. “Uh-huh. Uh-oh. Sorry to hear that.” His eyebrows shot up. “Really! Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. Thanks, Roy.”

  He disconnected and looked at the two women, who faced him expectantly. “Roy Linebarger,” he explained. “He says Gerald’s been taken to the sheriff’s office.”

  “Arrested?” Piper asked.
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br />   “Don’t know. All Roy saw was Gerald sitting in the back of Carlyle’s car.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t sound good. Not good at all,” Aunt Judy said, and Piper had to agree.

  “There’s one other thing,” Uncle Frank said. “Turns out there was someone in town we didn’t know about.”

  “Yes?” Aunt Judy prompted.

  “A woman. She arrived sometime yesterday, on her own.” He picked up the blade he’d been working on before the call and wiped it with a rag. Piper knew he was simply thinking over what he’d heard, but she wished mightily he’d share it with them.

  So did Aunt Judy, apparently, as she cried, “Frank! Don’t stop now! Who is she?”

  Uncle Frank looked up in surprise as though he thought he’d already said it. “Oh! The woman? It’s his wife. Conti’s wife.”

  8

  After getting home from the farm, Piper talked with Will by phone. He had already heard the news.

  “I feel I should do something,” he said, “but I have to drive to Rochester tomorrow to check out new bailing equipment.”

  Piper knew it was crunch time for Will’s Christmas tree farm, when he needed to make sure all his ducks were in a row for his busy November-December season. She wished him a safe trip and promised to update him on the situation when he got back.

  The next morning, expecting a busy day, Piper fortified herself with a breakfast of oatmeal and toast topped with her own strawberry jam and, of course, coffee. Lots of coffee.

  When she raised the shade on her shop door, hopefully prepared to face the onslaught of rehashings and minute-by-minute updates of the previous day’s events, to her surprise the first person she saw heading toward Piper’s Picklings was Erin. Quiet, mind-her-own-business Erin.

  This longtime friend of Amy’s had flexible hours, Piper knew, working part-time at Dr. Dickerson’s office while taking classes at the community college in nearby Bellingham. But Piper was still surprised that Erin, instead of all the more news-spreading townspeople (Piper carefully avoided the word “gossiping”), was the first to arrive on this extremely newsworthy morning. However, given a choice, calm and sensible Erin would have been a strong favorite.

  Piper unlocked her door and held it open as the young woman approached.

  “You’re out early,” she said. Erin was dressed for her receptionist’s job, having paired a pale yellow sweater, which complemented her brunette coloring, with a dark, knee-length skirt.

  “I have to be at Dr. Dickerson’s in a few minutes, but I wanted to get this to Amy today.” She held out the book she’d been carrying. “It’s a library book she asked me to pick up for her when I was there. I know Amy sleeps in after working late at A La Carte, so I thought I’d leave it here. Is that okay?”

  “Of course. Come on in. Want some coffee?”

  Erin stepped in but turned down the coffee, saying, “I’ll get plenty at the office.” She paused. “As well as an earful about what happened yesterday.”

  Piper noticed dark shadows under Erin’s eyes. “This is upsetting you.”

  Erin nodded, grimacing. “I like the Standleys. I got to know Miranda when we were both in chorus. She was two years behind me at school, but she sang second soprano, like me. We were about the same height, so we were usually next to each other. I like her a lot.”

  Erin reached over to straighten a pickling cookbook that jutted out of line on its shelf. “And Mrs. Standley,” she said, “came along sometimes when the chorus traveled for performances. She was always really nice. I hate to think what they might be going through. People are saying Mr. Standley might be in a lot of trouble.”

  “‘Might’ is the operative word,” Piper cautioned. “So far I haven’t heard of anything beyond his being questioned, which is absolutely normal and routine, I’d say, when a body has been found on your property.”

  “I tried to call Miranda, but I can’t get through.”

  “She’s probably being barraged with calls right now. Give it a day or so, Erin. Maybe everything will be straightened out by then. Have you talked to Ben lately? Does he know anything more than the rest of us?”

  “No, I don’t think so. The sheriff had him helping out at the Standley’s farm yesterday, but he was mostly there to move curious onlookers along. Today he’s back in his office. I’ll call him at lunchtime. He might have heard something by then.”

  “Let me know if he does, okay?”

  “I will.” Erin saw Piper’s gaze shift over her shoulder and turned to see Mrs. Tilley approaching the shop. “I’d better get to work,” she said, returning an errant purse strap back to her shoulder. She held the door for Mrs. Tilley, both exchanging polite greetings.

  Mrs. Tilley, a regular customer at Piper’s Picklings, smiled as she stepped in. “I just wanted to pick up some cinnamon and cloves,” she explained and proceeded to pluck the two jars off their shelves. Instead of bringing the spices to Piper to ring up, however, she continued to browse, adding an occasional item—a slotted ladle, then a package of jar labels—to one of the small shopping baskets that Piper kept handy.

  Piper could see from the woman’s furtive glances her way that Mrs. Tilley was bursting to chat, but as she watched the purchases drop into the basket she was torn between making it easier for the woman or letting her continue to build what might total up to a tidy sale. When she saw Mrs. Tilley circle a display of canning supplies that Piper knew for a fact she already possessed, she relented.

  “I guess you heard about the Italian team’s manager,” Piper said.

  Mrs. Tilley’s face brightened. “Yes! Wasn’t that shocking? I heard he was found in the Standley dill field. Is that right?”

  “That’s what I understand.”

  At that moment, Phil Laseter, Cloverdale’s retired optometrist, entered the shop. “Ah, Joan! I thought I saw you turn in here. How’s Bob?”

  “He’s fine. Over his cold now,” Mrs. Tilley said, her head bobbing.

  “Good, good. Remind him there’s a woodworking club meeting tomorrow night, would you?” As Mrs. Tilley nodded, he said, “Terrible business out there at the dill farm, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, we were just saying!” Mrs. Tilley chirped. “I can’t get over it, where he was found, and all. Do you suppose Gerald . . . ?” Her voice trailed off.

  Piper jumped in at that point. “It may be only a coincidence. Raffaele Conti’s car was found with a flat tire next to the dill field.”

  “She’s right,” Phil Laseter said. “No use leaping to any conclusions. Though we all know the grudge Gerald held against the man, and—”

  “And nothing,” Emma Leahy proclaimed as she pushed her way into the shop. “That was years ago when they were kids. Don’t go hanging poor Gerald over water that’s long gone under the bridge.”

  “I wasn’t—” Phil Laseter defended himself, only to be interrupted by Joan Tilley, who was in turn interrupted by Emma Leahy.

  Piper could only look on in dismay. Gerald Standley was being tried by a jury of his peers before he’d even been charged with anything. And her pickling shop had turned into the courtroom!

  “Ladies! Gentleman!” she called, restraining herself from rapping on her counter with a nearby wooden spoon. When they turned her way, Piper asked, “Does anyone know about Raffaele Conti’s wife being in town? I heard she’d arrived sometime Saturday.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Tilley’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t know that.” Phil and Emma looked at each other and both shook their heads, looking equally surprised.

  “I never heard anything about a wife,” Phil said. “She must have stayed at the hotel. Who would know about that?”

  “Well, Don Tucker works the desk at the Cloverton,” said Emma. “He should know.”

  “Good point. Why don’t we go and talk to him.” Phil turned and headed out the door, followed closely by Emma. Mrs. Tilley was
on her way out as well when she remembered the basket of unpaid-for items still hooked over her arm.

  “Oh!” she cried, glancing anxiously from Piper to her rapidly retreating friends. Piper could see she wanted to keep up with Phil and Emma much more than she wanted to keep her purchases.

  “I can hold those for you, Mrs. Tilley,” Piper offered.

  “Would you? I’ll come back for them. Well, maybe not today. I have to, well, there are things I need to . . .”

  Piper sighed silently and took the basket from her would-be customer. “Whenever you can, Mrs. Tilley,” she said and watched the woman scurry down the street after the others.

  That scene repeated itself several times that morning, with variations, before Amy finally arrived for her shift. When she walked in, stepping aside for two exiting, and still talking, women, Piper nearly cheered with relief.

  “Busy morning?” Amy asked.

  “Nonstop. But chatter, not sales. Thoughts of pickling, apparently, do not go along with crime, which I suppose I should be grateful for. Oh, before I forget, Erin dropped a book off for you.” Piper hadn’t checked the title when she took it from Erin, and she glanced at it now. The Ins and Outs of Running a Restaurant. “Hmm. Something in the works?”

  Amy laughed. “I wish! But not for a good while. It’s my long-term goal. I’m getting the kitchen end down pat, working at A La Carte. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to start studying up on the business end.”

  “Good thinking.” As Amy dropped her purse and the library book behind the counter, Piper added, “Perhaps Carl Ehlers could have used some instruction in that department before opening up his pizzeria.”

  “I know. What he’s going through is exactly what scares me. I don’t want to sink a pile of money into a place and then watch it go down the drain. A lot goes into making a success of a restaurant beyond offering good food. There’s location, figuring out the right prices, good suppliers . . .” Amy shuddered.