The Pickled Piper

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  “Thursday? Someone mentioned they thought they’d seen him in town then.”

  “Why, yes, it was Thursday, as a matter of fact. Thursday afternoon. Anyway, he’d just spoken with his mother, and he stopped in to let me know he’ll probably have the signed papers for me very soon. I can let you know when they’re ready to show it. Nice big yard. A little paint and plaster and the place could be ready to move in by—”

  “That’s okay, there’s no hurry at all. I think Dorothy told me her son lives in Poughkeepsie. Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly right. He moved there, let me see . . . good heavens, it must be at least twenty years ago! He took a job at a fitness gym, you know, one of those places with all the weights and treadmills and other instruments of torture.” Another wink. “He was a personal trainer, if I remember rightly. Must have been pretty good at it, because a couple of years ago he invested in a gym of his own. Of course, Dorothy may have pitched in some, financially. He was always the light in her eye, and she’d do anything for him.”

  Including giving up her house if he asked? Piper wondered if Dorothy was really ready to do that, or if Robby had suddenly become desperate for cash and was tightening the screws on a doting mother. Piper had never met Robby, but Stan Yeager’s information about Robby’s line of work told her he would certainly be strong enough to do away with Alan Rosemont if he were so inclined, plus lift his body into Piper’s pickle barrel.

  That last part still rankled Piper. If Robby—or anyone else—murdered Alan Rosemont, why did they have to involve her pickle barrel? The instant she had the thought, Piper chided herself. A piece of equipment—proud as she’d been of it—was the least of the problems. Two men were dead, and a third was under deep suspicion for their murders, his life in danger of being ruined forever.

  Robby Taylor had been in town on Thursday. That, on top of his having been furious at Alan for fleecing Dorothy out of her antiques, certainly kept him in the running with her other suspects.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Yeager.”

  “Not at all. As I said, I’ll let you know as soon as the Taylors are ready to show the house, and you can bring your young man—”

  “Hey, look at the time! Gotta run.” Piper left Stan Yeager in mid-thought, delighted to hear his phone ring, which would hopefully distract him from images of her house hunting along with Will.

  Poor Will. If he only knew what he’d gotten himself into by giving her that Christmas tree.

  Or did he?

  20

  “Piper,” Aunt Judy asked over the phone, “what’s this about you being in the market for a house?”

  Piper glanced at the clock above the shelf of assorted pickling spices. It had been over two hours since she spoke with Stan Yeager. What took so long?

  “I’m not looking for a house, Aunt Judy.”

  “But Mrs. Peterson said that Stan Yeager told her that—”

  “I only visited with Mr. Yeager to find out where Robby Taylor was on Thursday afternoon, when Dennis Isley was pulled off the roof.”

  “Oh, of course! I told Mrs. Peterson . . . well, never mind. So what did you find out?”

  Piper explained about Robby having been in Cloverdale on Thursday to discuss selling his mother’s house with Stan Yeager.

  “Maybe that’s why Dorothy was so closemouthed when I tried to talk to her about Robby,” Aunt Judy said. “Do you suppose she really wants to sell her house?”

  “You know her better than I do. What do you think?”

  Piper’s aunt went silent for a moment before saying, “First and foremost Dorothy wants to make her son happy. She probably felt she was doing that when she let Alan Rosemont clear her attic, thinking she was saving Robby from the job later on. Instead, Robby went ballistic when he learned what she’d done and realized she’d been essentially swindled by Alan.

  “Dorothy might have convinced herself that since she’d lost a chunk of what would have been Robby’s inheritance,” she continued, “she now needed to make it up to him. I doubt Dorothy wants to give up her house, but she might if Robby asks her to.”

  “Is the house Mrs. Taylor’s only asset? I mean, if Robby needed a significant amount of money from her, would she have any on hand to give him? Or is selling her house the only way she could come up with it?” Piper was thinking of the six thousand Dennis had received after Alan Rosemont’s murder.

  “That I don’t know, dear.” Piper heard a soft chuckle come from her aunt. “Small towners know a lot about one another, but that doesn’t generally include bank balances.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it would,” Piper agreed. And thank heavens for that, though in this case she wished there’d been an exception.

  “There’s bad news about Nate, Aunt Judy.” Piper told her about Nate’s loss of job at A La Carte.

  “That’s terrible! That poor boy. But tell Amy not to worry. I’ll ask around. I’m sure we can find something for him.”

  “Would you? Thanks, Aunt Judy.”

  Piper ended the call as a woman walked into her shop, announcing she’d come for a fresh supply of pint jars and lids. As Piper gathered them up, her customer chatted, as most seemed to do, about her intended use for the equipment.

  “My husband loves to grow tomatoes,” the woman said, “and we get so much more than we can eat or give away. So I turn some of them into catsup—my own recipe—and give them away here and there. Everyone seems to love it!”

  “A great idea,” Piper agreed. After all, who didn’t like catsup?

  When the woman left, Piper went into her back room to work on her zucchini pickles. Amy had drained and rinsed the soaking vegetables while Piper was at the Realtor’s office. She’d also combined the vinegar, sugar, and spices and boiled it all briefly as required. Piper had continued the project when she’d returned, and it was time for the next step.

  She brought the squash and vinegar mixture back to a boil, and after five minutes of cooking, ladled her pickled squash into clean, hot jars, sealed them, and set them into her water bath canner to process. She heard her front door open and Tina’s voice call out, so Piper carefully set her timer, then went out front.

  Tina got right to the point. “A couple of people in my lunch crowd told me they saw Rodney’s garage truck pull into your alley this morning. Is everything okay?”

  Tina appeared a bit frazzled, with her normally tidy hair hanging limply and her face flushed and shining from the heat. Must have been a busy lunchtime at the coffee shop, Piper thought, and she was touched that Tina had put checking up on a friend’s well-being ahead of her own need for rest.

  “I had a little problem with my car’s tire stems,” Piper said. “Someone did a number on them, pulling them out during the night, which left me with four flats.”

  “Oh, that woman!” Tina glared in the direction of Charlotte Hosch’s confectionary shop.

  “Hold on, Tina. There’s no proof it was Charlotte. And really, can you imagine Charlotte skulking about in the middle of the night fiddling with tires or throwing paint?”

  “Maybe she got someone to do it for her,” Tina persisted.

  “And trusted they wouldn’t rat on her someday? I don’t know, Tina. Charlotte’s pretty disagreeable, but I just can’t see her going to such lengths.”

  “Piper,” Tina said as she swept a drooping lock of hair from her face, “you don’t know her like I do. Her shop is right across the street from mine, and I see and hear that woman every day. I really think she’s capable of much more than you realize. Even if you don’t think you can report her, you should really watch out for her.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Piper said, shaking her head, “but if Charlotte—or anyone—is inclined to cause damage when no one’s around, I’m afraid they’re going to get away with it. I can’t expect special police protection, especially with the damage being fairly
minor.”

  “So far. What if things get much worse?”

  “Then,” Piper said, heaving a sigh, “I’m in trouble, and so is my pickling shop. But I’ll worry about that when I have to. For now, I’m going to focus on Nate and the trouble he’s in. Did you get a chance to look into Ralph Farber’s whereabouts when Dennis was killed?”

  Tina looked at Piper for a moment, as though wanting to say more on the current subject, but then nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  Piper waited, and Tina dragged a stool closer and sat down with a tired sigh. “One of my customers—your neighbor, actually—helped out with that.”

  “My neighbor?”

  “Mr. Williams. The bookshop owner.”

  “Oh, right.” Piper had met Gilbert Williams, of course, and had been inside his new-and-used bookshop next door to Piper’s Picklings. But the older man was generally so absorbed with his books, to the point of near-reclusiveness, that she tended to forget he was even there. “Mr. Williams goes out to lunch?”

  Tina nodded. “Tuesdays and Thursdays, like clockwork. But he missed last Thursday, which is how I learned about Ralph Farber’s whereabouts. Farber was at Gilbert Williams’s bookshop, delivering and installing a new sink in the washroom. Mr. Williams wanted me to know he hadn’t gone elsewhere for his lunch but had felt he should stay at his shop while Ralph was there, in case any questions came up.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s so sweet—Mr. Williams, I mean—for not wanting me to feel offended. He orders the same thing almost every time. Corned beef on rye. But if I haven’t been able to find good corned beef that week, he’ll change it to grilled chicken with lettuce and tomato.”

  “So Ralph Farber was at the bookshop all Thursday afternoon?”

  “That, I don’t know. Things got too busy at the coffee shop for me to ask. But I could run over to the bookshop right now, if you like.”

  Piper took in the dark circles under Tina’s eyes and shook her head. “I can do that myself. If Mr. Williams gives Ralph Farber an alibi for the time Dennis was killed, then I’ll cross him off my suspect list. If not, then we’ll see.”

  “Is Charlotte on your list?”

  “No, I didn’t have any reason to connect her to Alan Rosemont’s murder.”

  “Well, I don’t know about Alan, though I wouldn’t be surprised to find there was a grudge of some sort between them. But remember, she was the one who told Sheriff Carlyle about Nate going into the alley around the time Dennis was killed.”

  “Yes?”

  “That means Charlotte was there, too. Who’s to say she didn’t go into that alley after Nate did and pull poor Dennis off that roof herself?”

  Piper puffed out her cheeks, thinking. Tina was right. Who could say that hadn’t happened? “And reported Nate to divert suspicion from herself?”

  “Exactly!”

  “It’s possible,” Piper said. “But I’ll still need more to believe that actually happened.”

  Tina shook her head sadly, and Piper could guess what she was thinking: that Piper was being dangerously obtuse about a potential murderer in their midst. She certainly hoped not. Only time would tell which of them was right.

  • • •

  With traffic at her shop slowed to nonexistent near the end of the day, Piper closed up a few minutes early, then hurried over to Gilbert Williams’s bookshop, hoping he would still be open. She brightened as she saw his lights on and spotted the sixtyish-looking man bent over his desk, examining one of his many books. Piper walked in, and Gilbert Williams lowered his reading glasses and looked up.

  “Miss Lamb,” he said, as a gentle smile lit up his thin face. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Despite the warm day, he was wearing his usual brown, leather-elbow-patched cardigan. His white hair stuck out in a few places, as though he’d absently run a hand through it, and the plaid shirt beneath the cardigan looked clean but rumpled. Piper knew from Aunt Judy that there’d never been a Mrs. Williams.

  “Gilbert never seemed able to pull his nose out of a book long enough to notice the women around him,” Aunt Judy had said. “But he’s a good soul and apparently quite content as he is.”

  “Mr. Williams,” Piper began, her gaze involuntarily drawn to a group of cookbooks on a table nearby. “I understand Ralph Farber was here on Thursday afternoon. Is that right?”

  Gilbert Williams thought back. “Thursday? I suppose that was the day. Yes,” he said more firmly, probably remembering his missed lunch. “That’s right. Why do you ask? I hope the noise wasn’t disturbing you.”

  “Not at all. I wasn’t even aware until today that he’d been here. No, I’m just trying to—” Piper stopped herself. Did she want to share her reason for checking up on the plumber, which was to decide if he would remain on her murder suspect list or not? Would that shock this quiet, bookish man? Then she spotted a selection of classic murder mysteries behind him. John D. MacDonald, Dashiell Hammett, Dorothy L. Sayers. The bindings looked original, though faded and worn.

  “Have you read all those?” she asked.

  Williams glanced over his shoulder, then nodded. “Those, and many more. There’s nothing like a good mystery to keep—as Hercule Poirot would have said—the little gray cells active.” He tapped his temple, smiling.

  Hercule was right, Piper thought, although the Belgian detective could have added “as well as turn the little hairs on your head gray.” “You must have been following our real, live mysteries, then. Alan Rosemont? Dennis Isley?”

  Williams nodded. “With great interest. I intended to stop in and offer my sympathies over the unfortunate involvement of your pickling booth, but anytime I had a moment you appeared to be quite busy in your shop, so I put it off. Please let me do that right now, Miss Lamb.”

  “Thank you. And please call me Piper.”

  Williams nodded. “If you’ll call me Gil. Now, what does Ralph Farber have to do with Alan Rosemont and Dennis Isley?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to determine.” Piper explained about Nate Purdy being under suspicion for both murders, partly from incriminating circumstances and partly, she feared, for simply being who he was: an unknown personage. “A few of us who believe in Nate’s innocence are hoping to turn up enough real evidence to pull the sheriff’s attention away from Nate and toward the actual murderer.”

  “And you think my plumber might be the murderer?”

  “I don’t think anything, right now. All I know is that Ralph Farber had a few run-ins with Alan Rosemont over his persistent bagpipe playing, living, as he did, next door to him. Plus, Farber was at the fairgrounds the night Alan was murdered. I think Dennis Isley’s murder is connected to Alan’s. Which is why I want to pinpoint Ralph Farber’s whereabouts at the time of Dennis’s fall from the roof.”

  An odd look passed over Williams’s face, and he opened his mouth as if to speak. But the shop door burst open at that moment, and a large man blustered in.

  “Good! You’re still here,” the man boomed. “That replacement faucet just came in. Thought I’d install it right away. That work for you?”

  Gilbert Williams stood up and, with a glance at Piper, said, “Of course, Mr. Farber. That would be perfectly fine.”

  21

  Piper stood face-to-face—or rather, face-to-chest—for the first time with the man she’d just been discussing as a possible murderer. Though tall and burly, Ralph Farber’s physical size was far less intimidating than his manner. Nate had said he wouldn’t have wanted to cross the man, and Piper understood. She could only imagine what the confrontations between Alan Rosemont and Ralph Farber had been like and wouldn’t have wanted to be in the middle of them. On those grounds alone, Farber had currently risen to the number one spot on her list.

  “Have you met my neighbor?” Gilbert asked and introduced Piper.

  “Nice to meetcha,” Farber said,
lightening the deep scowl on his face a degree. “You got the pickle place over there?”

  “I do,” Piper said.

  Farber whipped out a business card and handed it to her. “I did the plumbing there way back when it was a flower shop. Basic stuff. Give me a call when you’re ready to upgrade.”

  Piper nodded and pocketed the card, and Farber proceeded to the back of the bookshop with his replacement faucet and bag of tools, knocking a book or two from their shelves in the process. Rescuing the first, Gilbert turned to Piper.

  “Please continue your browsing, Piper. I’m sure you’ll find that recipe you were looking for tucked away in one of these cookbooks. If not, there’s a few more on a shelf near the back.” With that, he followed Farber to the washroom, having thus given Piper leave to listen in to whatever might come up in his conversation with the plumber.

  Piper lingered near the counter for a while, Farber’s loud voice carrying clearly as he explained why the new faucet would be worth every penny of its cost and apparently improve Gilbert Williams’s life tenfold by its very presence. She heard several clanks as he spread out his tools, then things quieted. Piper moved toward the back where she could see Gil near the doorway of the small restroom. How Ralph Farber fit into the rest of it, she didn’t know, but she could hear him talking again as he worked, mainly complaints. She listened as he railed at some length against the rise in gas prices, the rotten service of his cable company, and the “stinkin’-hot” weather, among other things.

  Gil Williams made noncommittal noises that could be taken for agreement if one were so inclined. There were a few loud grunts, presumably from the plumber’s efforts with the faucet, and more clinks from his tools.

  “Mr. Farber,” Gil said, “I really appreciate your coming here late on a Saturday to install this.”