Lyella Pfiefle looked about as unlikely a murderer as anyone could. She was tiny, for one thing, barely reaching five feet tall by Piper’s estimation. Most storytellers who Piper remembered from her childhood days had perched cozily on chairs to read to their groups. But it was clear if Lyella sat, she’d disappear from view.
The librarian was slim to the point of too thin, causing Piper to think a rogue puff of wind from the window might easily blow her over. Piper would, at first guess, have put her at late middle age. But a look beyond the simple blouse and cotton skirt showed an unlined face framed by dark, shiny hair that, despite being pulled back severely into a ponytail, signaled a woman at least ten years younger.
Taken altogether, though, Piper could not imagine Lyella Pfiefle—currently describing the antics of bunnies and turtles—having the strength to kill a man plus lift his body into Piper’s pickle barrel, no matter how furious she might be.
Piper flashed back to the kitchen and Uncle Frank’s twitching mouth as they discussed Lyella as a possible suspect. She shook her head and laughed silently at herself. After all these years, she still fell for her uncle’s jokes. Still, since she was here, she might as well talk to the woman.
The story ended, and the children scrambled to their feet, a few dillydallying but most rushing over to their parents. Lyella gathered up a small pile of books and waited for the group to move on. Piper made her way to the front of the room.
“Miss Pfiefle?”
“Mrs.,” she swiftly corrected, then offered an efficient smile. “What can I do for you?”
Piper introduced herself and asked, “Would you mind talking a bit about Alan Rosemont?”
The librarian’s smile disappeared, but she nodded. “Quite a shocking turn of events.”
“Yes, it was. I was the one who found him, along with Ben Schaeffer. It was my pickling booth.”
“Oh! So you’re the owner of the new pickling shop.”
A little girl with blond curly pigtails dashed over and gave the librarian’s knees a hug. “Thank you, Mrs. Pfiefle.”
“You’re welcome, Kayla. See you next week.”
The girl ran back to her mother, and Lyella murmured to Piper, “A pleasant age. Ten years from now she’ll be shooting me dirty looks for breaking up a giggling session in the stacks. But you had a question about Alan Rosemont?”
“Yes. I never met the man, but I witnessed a nasty argument he instigated the afternoon before he was murdered. I’ve since heard that was fairly typical of him—that he was difficult to get along with.”
“Horrible man,” Lyella said flatly. “I was hoping for years that his business would go belly-up and that he’d leave town for parts unknown. Preferably Siberia. Who would have guessed it would be he who’d go belly-up? But life,” she said, looking down at the books in her arms and shifting them, “is unpredictable.”
“I heard he was responsible for the paint job on your building.”
Lyella gave a choking laugh. “Lovely, isn’t it?” The group of mothers and children had cleared, and Lyella made a move to leave. “Let’s continue this out there, shall we? I need to reshelve these books.” With Piper hustling to keep pace, the librarian spoke as she briskly led the way toward the children’s books section. “Alan claimed he chose the paint to save the town money, which would be bad enough. But I know he took a special satisfaction in doing something he knew would aggravate me.”
“Oh?”
“I once had the audacity to organize a petition against one of his council proposals. He wanted to stop funding for maintenance of our town’s historical marker. No way was I going to let that happen. He didn’t like that.”
“There’s a historical marker?” As soon as Piper said it she could have bitten her tongue, for Lyella threw her a severe look.
“In front of the courthouse. It details Cloverdale’s founding in 1821, among other things.”
“I’ll check it out,” Piper promised. “Alan Rosemont apparently didn’t like opposition.”
“Alan Rosemont liked being a big fish in a small pond.” Lyella slipped two of her slim books into place on a shelf.
“A fish that liked to play the bagpipes, apparently. His pipes were found next to him at my booth.”
Lyella rolled her eyes. “He took that up after digging into his genealogy here. We have quite good resources for doing so,” she said and slipped another book onto the shelf. “He traced his roots to a particular clan and suddenly became more Scottish than Rob Roy. Unfortunately for Cloverdale music lovers, having Scottish genes doesn’t guarantee you can play the bagpipes. Alan seemed to think the more he played them, the better he’d be. He was wrong.”
“Do you think he was practicing when he was killed?”
“That’d be my guess.”
“But you didn’t happen to see him that night?”
“Oh no! Gordon and I were home all evening. We retire early. From what I understand, what happened to Alan occurred late, after the fair had closed down.”
“Yes, it must have. Gordon’s your husband, of course?”
“Of course.” For the first time, Piper saw a softening in Lyella’s face and warmth creeping into her smile. She became close to lovely for the moment or two it lasted. Then the efficient-librarian face returned. “I have things to do in my office. Was there anything else?”
“No, but thank you very much.” Piper glanced around. “Perhaps I’ll go look over your cookbooks.”
“Section 641,” Lyella pronounced crisply, indicating the area with a quick wave. She bid Piper a good day and strode off.
Piper started to head for section 641—there was always the possibility of new pickle recipes to be found—when she heard, “Psst.” A stooped, gray-haired woman dressed in wrinkled beige linen was beckoning her over. Piper glanced toward the office to check that Lyella had disappeared into it before going over to the woman.
“I overheard you talking with Lyella,” the woman whispered. Her deep-set eyes fairly glittered. “She and Gordon don’t always retire early.”
“No?”
“That Gordon Pfiefle worships the ground she walks on. Anyone who upsets Lyella, upsets Gordon, if you take my meaning.” The woman nodded vigorously before pulling a balled-up handkerchief out of a pocket and dabbing at a corner of her mouth. “I’m Martha Smidley. I live right across the street from the Pfiefles. Not that that meant Lyella ever condescended to save a person a bit of trouble by bringing a book or two back for them.” She sniffed.
“Did you see the Pfiefles go out Friday night?” Piper asked.
“No,” Martha Smidley said, shaking her head with regret, “I didn’t. I’m just saying it could happen. Their lights aren’t always out by nine. Oh, there you are, Betty,” she exclaimed as a younger woman—a daughter?—approached. “I’m ready to check out now, dear.” Martha turned away from Piper without a further word and walked off with Betty, gabbling energetically to her about the particular book she’d chosen. But she managed to shoot a meaningful look over her shoulder at Piper before she’d gone too far.
Well, Piper thought, looking after Lyella’s watchful neighbor. What do I do with that?
6
Piper left the library—with one checked-out cookbook in hand—and paused for a moment outside to think. A tan pickup pulled over near her.
“Lost your way, little girl?”
“Uncle Frank!” Piper poked her head into the open passenger window, leaning one arm on the edge. “If I had, I’m not sure you’d be the one to ask for directions.”
Uncle Frank chuckled. “You met Lyella.”
“Yes, I certainly did. I think I can safely cross her off my list, don’t you?”
“Detective work not as easy as it looks on TV? Maybe you should stick to pickling and just let the sheriff do his job. What do you think, peanut?”
“I won�
�t get in Sheriff Carlyle’s way. I hope he finds whoever killed Alan Rosemont. Who really killed Rosemont, not just who’s conveniently handy.”
“Well, now, that’s not fair. George Carlyle’s an honest man.”
“You’re right. I take that back. But I’d hate to think that some things might be overlooked if the sheriff—and those around him—rushed to judgment. I just want to check out what might be the forgotten fringes of the situation.” She paused. “Do you know Lyella Pfiefle’s husband?”
“Gordon Pfiefle, the fellow who manages the supermarket? What, is he the next suspect on your list?”
From the crinkles around Uncle Frank’s eyes, Piper assumed Gordon Pfiefle was just as unlikely a suspect as Lyella had turned out to be. She shrugged. “I just wondered what he did, since Lyella happened to mention they always turn in early.”
“Well, I suppose he might have early hours at the market. I wouldn’t know. Want a lift to your place? I’m just heading back from the fairgrounds and have a few things to drop off at Bill Vanderveen’s down the way, there,” he said, gesturing toward Third Street.
“No, go ahead.” Piper knew her uncle would want to stay and visit with his friend for a while instead of hustling her on home. “I feel like a walk. But give Bill my best.” She pulled her head out of his truck and waved him off.
As she strolled toward Beech Street, Piper thought about what Martha Smidley had hinted to her. She seemed to have a grudge against Lyella and might also have something against Gordon that could color her opinion. Perhaps he hadn’t shoveled her snow-covered walk when she needed it, or an oversight similarly unforgivable in her eyes?
Was Gordon worth checking out? Piper at least knew where to find him, thanks to Uncle Frank—assuming he wasn’t putting her on again. The supermarket, Piper knew, wasn’t that much out of her way. She could always use a few fresh items for her kitchen, and once she reopened her shop the next day her time would be limited. Having thoroughly talked herself into it, she turned right at Beech instead of left and headed for TopValuFood, Cloverdale’s largest food market.
• • •
Piper strolled about the supermarket, a bright yellow basket slung over one arm, wondering just how she should approach this. It was one thing to walk in at the library and question Lyella Pfiefle. However, if Lyella’s husband, Gordon, informed her that Piper had shown up at his market and done the same with him, she’d get a tad suspicious. If they had nothing to hide, of course, the worst that would come from it was an icy glare the next time Piper visited the library. If they did have something to hide, though, such as murder—well, that’s what kept Piper wandering through the produce section uncertainly.
After about ten minutes of sniffing melons and pinching grapes, she heard a voice on the public address system say, “Manager to register number three, please.” Piper’s head snapped up. She plopped a bag of seedless reds into her basket and scurried toward checkout number three.
Checker three stood motionless at her register, gazing expectantly over the heads of those in her line. Soon, a man in a white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows came barreling toward her, an expression of “eager to help” on his broad face. Whether or not it was genuine or pasted on for the public, Piper could only guess.
“Mr. Pfiefle,” the checker said, “Mrs. Diehl has a question about the price coming up on this bag of cat litter.”
Piper picked up a copy of one of the tabloids from a nearby rack and pretended fascination with its latest alien-baby headline but flicked her gaze between the newspaper and the burly manager.
Close to six feet tall, Gordon Pfiefle had the broad shoulders, biceps, and chest of a weight lifter. He clearly would have no problem lifting Alan Rosemont into Piper’s pickle barrel once he had knocked him dead. Interestingly, Piper noticed red scratches on Pfiefle’s neck, visible at the open collar of his shirt, and at least one near his ear. A struggle with Rosemont before killing him? Was that white shirt possibly hiding bruises?
Don’t jump to conclusions, Piper warned herself, which was exactly what she didn’t want Sheriff Carlyle to do. First she needed to establish if Pfiefle had the opportunity. She had at least the hint of a motive for him, if Martha Smidley was to be believed.
Gordon Pfiefle settled the price problem with Mrs. Diehl—to the woman’s satisfaction, judging by her pleased smile—and left the checkout area. He stopped to chat briefly with another customer, then walked on. Piper followed at what she hoped was a discreet distance.
A clerk stood partway up one aisle, stacking cans in rows, and as she added a final one the entire lineup toppled. The clerk—a young girl—cried out in dismay, and nearby customers jumped out of the way. Pfiefle hurried over and caught a few cans rolling his way, then helped the clerk scramble after the rest. Piper listened to him advise the girl to stack the cans in the sturdier pyramid formation, demonstrating. He then moved on, waving off the clerk’s grateful thanks. Piper waited until he’d disappeared around the corner before sidling up to the young woman.
“Guess you lucked out, there, huh?”
The girl grinned. “I could have really been chewed out, right? But I’ve never seen Mr. Pfiefle get really mad at anyone. I’ve only been here a few weeks, though.” She tapped lightly at her stacked cans. “Guess I’d better not press my luck.”
Piper picked up an overlooked can of green beans and handed it to the girl. “He seems very conscientious. Probably gets here at the crack of dawn, I’ll bet.”
The girl wrinkled her nose, melding together the freckles that were dotted across it. “I don’t think so. I’ve seen him mostly come in around eight thirty. Patty Wright opens up for us at seven.”
“Eight thirty’s not bad,” Piper said, nodding, “unless of course he stays till closing time. I’ve known managers who get pretty obsessive about their stores.”
“No, that’s not Mr. Pfiefle.” The girl smiled. “He says the sign of a good manager is training good employees, and if he can’t trust them to do their job, he hasn’t done his job.” She quoted Gordon Pfiefle with obvious admiration. Keeping in mind that the girl had only been employed there a few weeks, Pfiefle sounded like an ideal boss and possibly a very nice man.
Should Piper cross him off her list of suspects? She shook her head. There were still those scratches to be explained. Plus, if he wasn’t working late that night, his only alibi so far came from his wife, Lyella, who could safely be assumed to be biased. Piper also hadn’t yet spoken with the man. But she preferred to do that away from his workplace where his public face would always be on. Piper wanted to make sure she saw the real Gordon Pfiefle.
• • •
On her walk back to her shop, Piper spotted Charlotte’s Chocolates and Confections up ahead. An encounter with Charlotte once every few days, she felt, was more than enough, so she crossed the street. As she did so, Piper noticed the interior of Tina Carson’s coffee shop was lit and open for business. The delicious aromas of coffee and cooked bacon wafted her way, reminding her that she hadn’t had a decent lunch and drawing her toward the cozy, plaid-curtained shop. She went in.
“Hi, Piper,” Tina called from the other side of the counter where she set down a plate for a customer. “How’s it goin’?”
“Not too bad.” Piper slid onto a stool. “Feeling better?”
“Lots,” Tina said. “All I needed was to get out of that sun. Even my headache’s gone.”
Piper smiled, though the dark shadows still under Tina’s eyes hinted at possible lingering symptoms.
“Get you something?” Tina asked.
Piper ordered iced tea and a BLT on toasted wheat, and Tina turned to the work counter behind her to assemble it.
“Some doings at the fair, yesterday,” the lanky, ponytailed man sitting two stools down from Piper said.
“That’s all everyone’s been talking about today,” Tina said as she dropped tw
o slices of bread into the toaster. She glanced back at Piper. “A shame it happened at your booth.”
“Oh, it was your pickle barrel?” the man said, studying Piper with interest. His work boots and stained denims seemed a tad out of place at Tina’s shop, whose clientele tended to be more tidily dressed. But Piper was less put off by his attire than by the uncomfortable vibes she was getting from him with his roving gaze.
“Yes,” she answered, not inclined to elaborate.
“Bummer,” the man said, though his weak attempt at sympathy vanished as a grin slowly spread over his face. “What a way to go, eh? In a barrel of pickles. Alan Rosemont—Pinky—was pickled pink!” He laughed heartily at his own joke, then started coughing as the laugh turned into a choke.
Piper looked uneasily at Tina, but apparently she’d gotten used to the fact of Rosemont’s murder since her episode of the day before. When the man’s coughs gradually died down, Tina said, “Take it easy, Dennis. Do one thing at a time. Eat or talk.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “One thing at a time.” He coughed again, then cleared his throat. “Hey, I think I’ll take the rest of this with me,” he said, looking down at his plate. “Got something I can wrap it in?”
Tina handed him a sheet of waxed paper, and he rolled the remaining half of his sandwich in it before standing up. “I’ll see you around.”
“Okay, Dennis,” Tina said. “Thanks again for coming over.”
After he left, Tina explained to Piper, “That’s Dennis Isley. He does odd jobs around town, and I had to call him in to fix a pipe in the back that sprang a leak.” She rolled her eyes. “Just what I needed to bring on another headache, huh? Anyway, I promised I’d fix him something to eat afterward if he came right away.” She slid a plate with a thickly layered BLT and a generous side of potato chips on it across the counter, then poured out Piper’s iced tea.
“Thanks,” Piper said.
“Dennis did a fair amount of work for Alan Rosemont,” Tina said, “but he didn’t like him much.”
The Pickled Piper Page 5
