License to Dill

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  Frederico nodded. “Sì, sì, she is bella donna!” He turned to Miranda. “But you are bella ragazza, a beautiful girl. Signora Conti, though,” he paused, frowning, “she is not always the bella persona.”

  “Not a nice person?” Piper asked. “How so?”

  Frederico shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I don’t like to say. Is not very, um, diplomatico. Besides, with Raffaele dead, she now owns the team. Bianconeri.”

  “Really? Raffaele owned the team? I thought he was simply the manager.”

  “No, no, he owned. At least majority owned.”

  “And he ran it with an iron hand,” Miranda said, “Didn’t he?”

  “Sì, he did. He was not a very, how you say, popular man.”

  “I’ve been getting that impression.”

  “Tell her about your awful contract,” Miranda urged. When Frederico hesitated she jumped in. “It’s terrible. It tied Freddy up for years! He thought he was signing on for only a year, but there are clauses that give Conti the right to keep him with Bianconeri as long as he likes. Freddy has had much better offers once everyone saw how good he is, but he couldn’t accept any of them because of his horrible contract. Isn’t that right, Freddy?”

  Frederico looked uncomfortable, but he nodded. Miranda had volunteered that information to illustrate how despicable Raffaele Conti was, which it did. But she had also just presented an excellent motive for her Italian boyfriend to get rid of Conti. Piper was sure Miranda didn’t realize that, but judging from Frederico’s apparent uneasiness, he might.

  But could a young man with such a friendly, open air be capable of murder? Piper wondered. Some weeks ago, she might have said no. But her belief that nice people didn’t do bad things had since been thoroughly shaken. She was sorry to do so, but she might have to add Frederico to her suspect list.

  “Frederico,” she said, “has the sheriff been questioning the team members since the murder?”

  “Sì, sì, very much.”

  “And I suppose he asked where each of you was at the time of the murder?”

  Frederico nodded. “That was easy to answer. It was late, and we’re all in training. Most of us were in bed, fast asleep.”

  “Including you?”

  “Of course.”

  “And,” Piper said, “I suppose you all share rooms and could verify each other’s whereabouts.”

  Frederico shook his head. “How can you do that when you were sound asleep? My roommate, for instance, Marco, he sleeps—how you say—like the rock! Nothing wakes him, not even the alarm. Sometimes I throw water in his face to get him up!”

  At that, Frederico grinned, looking for all the world like he didn’t know he had just put himself in a very bad spot. Piper sighed. First Gerald Standley, now this likable young Italian. She was going to have to come up with something incriminating on much more clearly despicable people, though at this point they either hadn’t surfaced, or they were hiding their darker sides very well.

  14

  After Miranda and Frederico left, Piper sank onto a tall stool and leaned onto the counter, resting her chin in both hands. She felt as if her head had begun to spin from all the random and widely varying pieces of information concerning Raffaele Conti that had been thrown into it. As she worked to sort it out, Emma Leahy came into the shop.

  “Too much wine during your lunch at the Cloverton today?” Emma asked. She looked once again like she’d come straight from her garden, with her cropped denims dotted with old stains and an oversize shirt, though her hands and face appeared freshly scrubbed. Piper wondered if the woman actually spent that much time with her plants (and if so her garden must be the most weed-free in the county) or if she simply chose comfort over fashion at all times. If they ever attended a wedding together, Piper supposed she’d have her answer.

  “I didn’t have any wine,” Piper replied, straightening up. “And how did you know about my lunch?”

  “Amy told me when I stopped in earlier. I wanted to share what I learned from Don Tucker, but I assume you talked to him yourself while you were there?”

  Piper nodded. “He gave me the impression that Francesca Conti’s sudden appearance in Cloverdale didn’t exactly light up her husband’s day.”

  “That’s what I took from it as well,” Emma said. “I hung around a little, hoping she’d show up, but I never got to see her.”

  “I did. She’s just as Scott described her—very attractive and sophisticated, plus not particularly broken up over her husband’s death. I also just learned that she most likely inherits controlling ownership of Bianconeri.”

  “Aha! A motive!” Emma cried.

  “Well, perhaps, but if so you might claim every widow who takes over her husband’s business has a motive for murder. There needs to be more. How lucrative was the team’s income and how much else does Francesca inherit? Would she have lost it all through a divorce, perhaps because of a prenup? Or was money not the issue at all? Maybe, if she killed him, it was in a moment of passion?”

  “Yes!” Emma’s face lit up. “They argued over his endless affairs, she pulled out a gun, and he ran into the dill field in a panic!”

  “Whatever the motive,” Piper said, “we need to know where Francesca was around one thirty that night. Or, rather, morning.”

  “I’m sure Sheriff Carlyle has asked her that.” Emma’s mouth twisted wryly. “And she probably claimed to be fast asleep.”

  Like Frederico, Piper thought. And most likely 99.9 percent of Cloverdale. So far, the only person she knew of who’d admitted to being awake as well as in the murder vicinity was Gerald Standley. That status needed to change.

  “Oh, Piper,” Emma said, “I’m so glad you’ve jumped into this. With your young man—the lawyer—staying at the Cloverton where he can keep an eye on the Italians for us, we should—”

  “Hold on! Scott Littleton is not my young man. And I only promised Miranda to keep my eyes and ears open . . .” As she said it, however, Piper realized she’d been doing much more than that. It was impossible not to, after talking with Gerald and Denise. Was she, though, setting herself up for major trouble such as she’d run into the last time?

  “You’re such a clever young woman—obviously,” Emma said, indicating Piper’s so-far-surviving pickling shop with a wave. “And we’re delighted to have you working with us. Phil Laseter has been busy as well, and we’ve recruited Joan Tilley. We’re all going to meet tonight at my place. Would you let Scott know? Come around seven.”

  Let Scott know? “That’s not going to work for me, Emma—”

  “Seven thirty, then?”

  “No, the time’s not the problem. It’s just . . .” Piper thought a bit. How to phrase it without sounding totally insane? “I . . . I just work better alone, Emma. I’ve never been a committee person. Not ever.” Seeing Emma’s puzzled eye blinks, Piper rushed on. “But I’m so glad you and Phil and Mrs. Tilley are working together on Gerald Standley’s behalf. And Scott, too! And I hope you’ll keep me informed as you did today. That’s great! That’s really great! So, um, I’ll do whatever I can, and you three, no, four, can do what you do and we’ll all just keep in touch with each other. Okay? How does that sound?”

  “Well,” Emma said, “I guess that would work. You’re sure—?”

  “I’m sure.” Piper nodded vigorously. “Really sure. That will be perfect.”

  At that point, Piper spotted a far-too-familiar figure heading toward Piper’s Picklings, and she pointed out the window. “There’s Scott now. You can catch him right away and tell him about the meeting.”

  “Oh! How lucky!” Emma hurried out, intercepting Scott as Piper watched from the safety of her shop. She smiled as Emma turned Scott around, pointing and gesturing as she most likely gave detailed directions to her place for that night’s meeting. Then something else apparently occurred to Emma that seemed to need Scott
’s immediate participation, and the two headed off in the other direction, Scott not exactly dragged but casting over-the-shoulder glances back toward Piper’s place.

  Welcome to Cloverdale, Scott, Piper mouthed silently, then smiled cheerily as she greeted her next customer.

  As it neared six o’clock and things were quiet, Piper had begun to consider closing up shop, when Gil Williams walked in.

  “Oh, excuse me,” he said, pulling up short with mock surprise. “I must be in the wrong shop. I’ve obviously walked into a ladies’ high-end boutique by mistake.”

  Piper laughed. “I didn’t get a chance to change after my lunch at the Cloverton. And if my outfit is an example of high style in Cloverdale, I’m afraid the town is in major fashion trouble.”

  “Lunch at the Cloverton,” Gil said with a soft whistle. “I hope the owners invited you to discuss adding your tasty pickles to their menu.”

  “I wish. But now that you mention it, that’s probably something I should pursue. Later. After Gerald Standley is cleared and Conti’s real murderer is behind bars. Which was my reason for dining out in the middle of a workday—with Will, I might add.”

  “Ah. And did you find said murderer? Perhaps lurking behind the palm fronds in the hotel lobby?”

  “Wearing a T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on it and the words, ‘Catch Me If You Can’? Unfortunately, no. But I did pick up a few interesting things.” Piper related the details of her brief meeting with Francesca Conti as well as her talk with Don Tucker.

  “Tucker’s an astute man,” Gil said. “All those years running the pharmacy over at the regional hospital, he’d have to be. I’d take his assessment of the tension between Francesca and Raffaele as accurate.” Gil glanced at the clock. “Am I holding you up? I closed up a bit early, but you’re possibly on the brink.”

  “No problem. I’m more than glad to chat.” Piper, in fact, welcomed a visit from Gil, whose calm logic had helped her immensely on more than one occasion. “Aunt Judy told me that Don Tucker took the desk job at the Cloverton to fill his time after retiring from the hospital.”

  “Yes, I think he and Lois had plans to travel, but then she unexpectedly passed away. I half expected him to move closer to their only daughter after that—she’s living in Baltimore, I believe—but he stayed put in Cloverdale. I’m glad he found a way to stay busy.” Gil smiled. “I, on the other hand, have no plans whatsoever to retire from the work that’s occupied me for most of my years—simply because it’s never been work to me. Having a steady influx of books into my shop, both new and old, which bring me joy that I can in turn share with discriminating customers, is something I’m in no hurry to give up.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that,” Piper said, meaning it.

  “Which reminds me of why I stopped in.” Gil slipped onto a stool next to Piper’s collection of pickling cookbooks and reached for one, though Piper was sure Gil had no plans to put up any fall fruits or vegetables. “I had a customer in my shop earlier,” he said. “He was looking for a copy of The Maltese Falcon, which is neither here nor there. But as we chatted, he happened to mention Carl Ehlers.”

  “Owner of Carlo’s Pizzeria?”

  “The very one.” Gil, who’d begun flipping pages of the pickling book, paused and looked up from a recipe for pickled beets. “Seems this customer had heard Raffaele Conti’s radio interview in which he’d pretty much trashed Mr. Ehlers’s establishment. He said he shook his head at the time, thinking to himself that some things never change.”

  “What did he mean?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. He changed the subject after that, and another customer walked in, so I never had the chance to find out.”

  As Piper grimaced, Gil quickly added, “But, I thought you might want to ask him yourself.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Martin McDow. He does accounting for some of the local businesses, prepares taxes, that sort of thing. His office is just a couple of blocks away from here.”

  “I suppose he keeps usual office hours—nine to five?” Piper said, glancing at her clock, which was closing in on six.

  “Unfortunately, yes. But I happen to know that he plays the bodhran in a band, and—”

  “Bodhran?” Piper cut in.

  “It’s a small, handheld drum, about the size of a tambourine. The band Mr. McDow performs with is an Irish group. They play mostly for their own enjoyment—and I’d imagine an accountant particularly needs some kind of outlet—but occasionally they’re invited to perform at O’Hara’s.”

  “I know O’Hara’s. A bunch of us went there after the first soccer match.”

  “Then you’ll know it draws a good crowd, particularly when a band is there. Which, coincidentally, they will be tonight. I checked O’Hara’s website.”

  “Do you think I could manage to talk to Martin McDow if I went to O’Hara’s?”

  “I’d say so. Bands do take breaks. Perhaps you’d like to ask Will to accompany you?”

  Piper frowned. “I think Will’s going to be busy studying whatever loan information the bank gave him today.” She looked at Gil. “How about you go with me?”

  Gil leaned back in surprise. “Me?”

  “You’re the one who encouraged me to get into all this in the first place, you know. Which I’m glad you did, but just saying.” Piper grinned. “Besides that, you could introduce me to Martin McDow, which would make getting him to talk a lot easier.”

  “You’re quite right—on both counts. Well,” Gil said, “if you don’t mind being seen with an old codger, the band is scheduled to play at eight. Shall I come for you a few minutes before that?”

  “That would be delightful, Mr. Williams,” Piper said, executing a curtsy. “I shall look forward to it.”

  “As will I, Miss Lamb,” Gil said. He rose to take his leave, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I can’t promise a carriage. But my aging Buick should get us there safely enough.”

  15

  At seven forty-five, Piper’s front doorbell rang, and she trotted down the steps from her apartment over the shop to answer it. She’d changed from her Cloverton lunch outfit to what she decided was more O’Hara’s-suitable: dark jeans topped with a cream-colored sweater. She’d added a bright silk scarf at the last minute on the off chance that she might be underdressed. As she opened the door, Piper saw that while Gil still wore his usual dark flannel slacks, he’d exchanged his bookseller’s brown, elbow-patched cardigan for a green pullover.

  “How appropriate,” Piper said with a grin.

  “I realize we’re a long way from Saint Patrick’s Day, but I don’t get a chance to wear this very often. It was a gift from someone who thought I needed a bit more color in my life.”

  “It suits you,” Piper said, wondering who Gil’s “someone” was but not dreaming of pressing for more information. Though she knew very little about her shop neighbor’s personal life, that simply seemed the proper course of things—like never having known what her elementary school teachers did on their days off. It just felt highly inappropriate to inquire.

  “Ready for an evening of intense but subtle detective work?” Gil asked, holding out his arm.

  “Quite ready,” Piper said as she slipped her own arm through his and stepped lightly out her door.

  O’Hara’s was crowded, even more so than it had been after the soccer match. As they entered, Piper could see the band setting up on the dais at one end of the room. Gil found them a small table at the opposite end, explaining, “You won’t want to be too close to those amplifiers, unless you happen to have brought earplugs.”

  Piper, who’d attended her share of rock concerts, understood. The size of the room did not seem to justify the size of the amplifiers she saw, though in her experience it rarely did. She could only hope for Gil’s sake that the crowd would soak up much of the sound.

  A wait
ress came up to take their order. “Guinness, definitely,” Piper said.

  Gil agreed. “Make that two, and perhaps one of your appetizer platters?” he added, shooting an inquiring look at Piper, who thought that was a fine idea.

  “You got it,” the cheerful young woman said, taking off.

  “Which one is Martin McDow?” Piper asked, looking toward the four men working busily at their equipment across the room, all dressed in jeans, black tees, and matching tweed caps.

  “Hard to tell with most of their backs turned,” Gil said. He craned his neck, peering between crowded tables. “We can eliminate the one with the long hair, and the large fellow holding a guitar. Ah! There he is. Martin’s just pulled his bodhran out of its case.”

  Piper spotted him. McDow was testing his instrument with a small, bone-shaped beater, holding the round, hollow-backed drum up to his ear with his other hand. He was sandy haired and of medium build, with only a pair of round, wire-framed glasses hinting at his day job. In his current surroundings and getup, Piper thought he could have passed for a professional musician. Of course, the band hadn’t yet begun to play.

  Piper and Gil’s order arrived just as one of the guitar players stepped up to the microphone and greeted the crowd. He introduced the band and its members and named their first song—something about a lass named Bridget—and after a count of “one-two-three-four” the group took off: two guitars, a whistle player, and Martin McDow, whose steady beats on the bodhran helped hold it all together. Many in the crowd were apparently regulars, and they began singing along during the chorus and clapping their hands in time to the music, something that the band’s lead singer encouraged.

  Piper quickly found her toes tapping and saw Gil’s fingers bouncing on the table.

  “They’re not bad,” Piper said, having to lean close to Gil’s ear in order to be heard. He agreed with a smile and a nod.