License to Dill Page 9

  “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.”

  12

  “Piper, 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.”

  13

  It was time for Will to head to his bank meeting. Piper walked with him as far as the hotel lobby, where she lingered, hoping for a chance to talk to Don Tucker. She’d never met Tucker, but Aunt Judy had described him to her, and the man standing at the front desk—late sixties, gray haired, medium height, slim build—fit the bill.

  “Don took the job at the Cloverton after he retired from the hospital over in Bellingham, where he worked in the pharmacy,” Aunt Judy had told Piper. “His wife had died, and their daughter had moved away. I think Don needed to get out of the house more than he needed the money. He was the chief pharmacist, so I’m sure he was pretty well-set, financially.

  The couple who’d been checking out finally left, leaving Tucker alone, so Piper went over.

  “Mr. Tucker?”

  “Yes? Can I help you?” Tucker looked up from the papers he’d been examining with a smiling, well-lined face. His navy blue hotel blazer framed an impeccable white shirt and perfectly knotted striped tie.

  Piper introduced herself and mentioned Emma Leahy. “She may already have talked to you about—”

  “About Mrs. Conti?” When Piper nodded, he said, “Emma was here this morning. And Phil Laseter came a little later. I seem to have become a source.” He smiled when he said it, leading Piper to believe he didn’t much mind, which was good news, since Piper hoped to pump him a bit more.

  “I got the impression that his wife’s arrival was a surprise to Conti,” Piper said. “Is that right?”

  “All I can say is that Mr. Conti’s room was booked in his name only, not for the two of them. Since she arrived two days after he did, though, that wasn’t too unusual.”

  “Would you say he was pleased to see her?”

  “Well, from my vantage point, all appearances pointed to that,” Tucker said. “But then, you see, her arrival was a rather public situation.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward Piper.

  “I happened to see them at a much quieter time. It was before the Saturday evening match. They walked in together, possibly from an early dinner together, and headed over to the elevator. The expressions on both faces were extremely stiff. They looked like they’d been arguing but had clammed up while others were around. When the elevator doors opened, she stalked in but he hesitated, as though he’d rather not have to join her, but he finally did. As the elevator doors closed, they were standing about as far apart as they could get.”

  “Mmm. No love lost there, apparently.”

  Tucker shook his head. “And she’s such a beautiful woman. You asked if she’d surprised him by her arrival, and my guess would be she did. Before then, Conti was having a grand old time flirting with every woman in sight. A real Casanova, that man was. But his wife? She didn’t strike me as the long-suffering type. I don’t know how long they were married, but if he were still alive I doubt they would have stayed together much longer.”

  The desk phone rang, and Tucker reached for it, leaving Piper to think about what he’d just implied—that the Contis’ marriage was unlikely to last. Conti himself, of course, didn’t last more than a few additional hours that day. Could that have had anything to do with his wife? Tucker said she wasn’t the long-suffering type, and Piper, from their brief meeting, would agree. Was Francesca, though, also the impatient type, eager to end her marriage in a swifter manner than divorce?

  With Tucker still occupied, Piper wandered over to the restaurant entrance. From there she could see Coach Tortorelli and Francesca Conti sitting at their table. Francesca pulled out a cigarette and was preparing to light it when a waitress scurried up, probably to inform her that she couldn’t do that. Words were exchanged, and though Piper was too far away to catch them, the angry tone and gestures told her enough—that Francesca Conti did not like to be crossed.

  Piper hurried back to the pickling shop, even though Amy had urged her to take her time. She thoroughly trusted Amy’s ability to handle things, but as far as her little shop was concerned she still felt like a mom with a new baby: uneasy when she was away too long and certain that it was safest only in her own care. Besides, with the Conti situation still agitating the town, Piper hated to think of poor Amy having to deal with the influx of “news spreaders” that had been so active the day before.

  She was relieved, therefore, to walk in and find things quiet, with only Nate keeping Amy company as she polished the glass front of a display case.

  “Hi,” Piper greeted them. “Everything under control?”

  Amy set down her spray bottle. “Fine! No problems. Although,” she admitted, “it did get a little busy at one point. But luckily Nate came by around then, and he gave me a hand.”

  “I’ve spent so much time here that I know where most everything is,” Nate said, grinning.

  Piper laughed. “Maybe we should make it official and I’ll add you to the payroll.”

  “Uh-uh. Pickling’s not my thing. Music is.”

  They chatted awhile about Nate’s progr
ess on the music demo he was working on, Amy looking proudly on until she suddenly glanced at the clock. “Time to get going,” she said. “A La Carte awaits.” She was pulling off her apron when the shop door opened, and two people walked in.

  “Miranda!” Amy cried.

  Piper didn’t actually know the young man with Miranda, never having seen him close-up, but she wasn’t at all surprised when Amy added, “Frederico. Good to see you!”

  The handsome, dark-haired, athletic young man, now dressed in jeans and a tee instead of his Bianconeri uniform, smiled broadly at Amy. “Ciao, Amy!” He spotted Nate and greeted him as well.

  “Frederico,” Miranda said, “this is Piper Lamb, who I was telling you about.”

  “Buongiorno, Signorina Lamb.” He took her hand and pumped it enthusiastically.

  “Just Piper, please,” Piper said, thinking she liked this very friendly soccer player with a decidedly open face, at least on first impressions. She reclaimed her hand after a moment or two. “I’m very glad to meet you, Frederico.”

  “Miranda, we have to take off,” Amy called. “See you later!” She grabbed her purse and Nate’s hand and headed for the door.

  Miranda waved, then turned back to Piper. “I was telling Frederico how you’ve volunteered to help my dad out, and he was eager to meet you.”

  Not exactly “volunteered,” Piper thought, though she wasn’t regretting it—yet.

  “Yes,” Frederico said. “I tell Miranda, this must be a fantastica woman who goes to such trouble for her friends.”

  Indeed, Piper found her appreciation of the man increasing by the minute, though she insisted, “I’m not the only one who wants to help. And what I can actually accomplish might be very limited. I did, by the way, have a brief chat with Signora Conti and your coach, Signore Tortorelli, just a little while ago.”

  “See?” Miranda said, turning to Frederico, as though to say, Didn’t I say she’d take care of everything?

  “Very brief,” Piper emphasized. “But it told me a few things. What is your impression of Signora Conti, Frederico? Other than that she’s beautiful, of course.”