License to Dill

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  Several more songs followed, some telling sad tales of young lads dying, but more causing laughter and cheers. The musicians weren’t always together, and the chords occasionally jangled off-key, but Piper couldn’t fault their enthusiasm.

  Finally, the band’s leader, wiping sweat from his brow, announced a short break. Gil was instantly on his feet.

  “I’ll try to catch Martin before anyone else does.”

  Piper watched the bookseller slip between tables and tray-toting waiters, impressed with his agility. Years spent winding among shelves and climbing library ladders had apparently served him well. In a few moments, Gil was heading back, leading a glowing-faced Martin McDow. Gil intercepted a passing waiter, gave an order after a quick consultation with McDow, then continued on to where Piper sat waiting. Introductions were made, a third chair was scrambled up, and soon McDow was enjoying a frosty brew along with compliments on the band’s performance from both Piper and Gil.

  “Thanks!” he said with a grin. “I know we’re not top level, but we have a lot of fun.”

  “Gil says you run an accounting business,” Piper said. “How do you find time to fit in practice and performances?”

  McDow shrugged. “It’s something I make time for. Just as my wife, who’s a nurse, makes time for her reading, which she finds relaxing.” He turned to Gil. “Did you happen to locate that hardcover copy of The Maltese Falcon yet?”

  “I’m still looking, but getting closer.”

  “Kate’s a bit of a collector,” McDow explained to Piper. “She loves Dashiell Hammett.”

  “She’s not alone in that,” Gil said. “Speaking of mysteries, you made an interesting comment at my shop this afternoon.”

  McDow’s brow rose questioningly as he reached for his beer and took a swallow.

  “We were talking about Raffaele Conti’s radio interview,” Gil explained. “He had dropped a few negative comments about Carlo’s Pizzeria, and you said, ‘Some things never change.’ That piqued my curiosity. Would you mind expanding on what you meant?”

  “Oh, that. All the news about Conti, lately, took me back to my high school days.”

  “Were you in his class?” Piper asked.

  “A couple of years behind. Didn’t matter, though. Everyone knew who he was.” At Gil’s invitation, McDow helped himself to a bacon-and-cheese-topped potato skin from a fresh appetizer platter the waitress had just plunked down. “What made me drop that comment was remembering the bullying side of Conti. Back then, people put up with it a lot more than they do today. If anyone behaved like that now toward one of my kids . . .” McDow’s eyes blazed briefly at the thought. “But back then most people looked the other way and were just glad it wasn’t them.”

  “Who was Conti bullying?” Gil asked.

  McDow looked surprised, as though he thought he’d already said. “The pizzeria guy, Carl Ehlers.” McDow shook his head. “Carl’s changed since, of course, but in high school he was a skinny kid with a bit of a stammer. In other words, the kind who’s ripe for bullying.” He glanced from Gil to Piper. “You know, I never understood Conti’s need to act that way. I mean, there he was, star of the soccer team with all the girls falling at his feet. You would have thought he had it all. Why would he need to put anyone down?”

  Piper shook her head. “Fear?” she said, then added, “Fear that he might lose it all? Or that others might find out what a small person he really was?”

  McDow nodded. “I suppose that could be it. Anyway, he’d do things to tease poor Carl all the time. Stuff like pushing him off the end of the lunch table bench and pretending it was an accident, then imitating his stammer when Carl got upset. The worst, though, was one day after school.”

  “What happened?” Piper asked.

  “Carl had a job at Schenkel’s. Remember that place?” he asked Gil, who nodded.

  “It was an ice cream and burgers joint,” he told Piper, “back before some of the chains moved in. A lot of the kids used to hang out there. Carl got a job bussing tables. I think he really needed that job, too. His folks weren’t so well-off. Anyway, I was there with a couple of friends, and Raffaele Conti walked in with his usual entourage, kids who hung on his every word and laughed at every joke. No soccer teammates, though.

  “Anyway, they grabbed a big table and made a lot of noise, making sure everyone in the place knew they were there. Since they also ordered plenty of food, management didn’t bother them about toning it down. Then Conti spotted Carl clearing tables and started giving him a hard time. I remember feeling embarrassed for Carl but at the same time pretty helpless. Looking back, I wish I’d stood up for him, but at fifteen I didn’t have the courage.

  “Carl tried to ignore Conti and just do his job, but he couldn’t stay out of reach forever. At one point he had to clear a table that was right next to Conti’s crowd. When he was carrying his loaded tray past them, Carl suddenly took a spill. Dirty dishes went flying all over the place, half-eaten food and leftover sodas making a big mess as well as dishes breaking. Nobody could say for sure, but the likelihood was he was tripped by either Conti or one of his lackeys.

  “Poor Carl just lay there for a minute, the whole place shocked into silence. Then, when he pulled himself up, I saw his fists were balled. Apparently he’d had enough. Carl lit into Conti with both hands, pummeling away and yelling. Conti, of course, didn’t just sit there and take it but was on his feet in a flash, as were most of his goons. Tables were overturned and people ran out screaming as three or four of them jumped on Carl.”

  “That’s terrible,” Piper said.

  “What was worse,” McDow continued, “was Carl got fired. All the manager saw was Carl lighting into Conti—a good customer—not any of what brought it on. Though I’m not sure that would have made a difference,” he added, grimacing.

  “Poor Carl. Was he badly hurt?” Piper asked.

  “Black eyes and bruises, as far as I remember. Probably not as bad as—” McDow turned as one of his band members tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Drink up, Marty,” the musician said. “Break time’s over.”

  McDow reached for his beer and quickly downed it. “Gotta go,” he said, adding with a grin, “My fans await.” He pushed back his chair, thanking Gil for the beer.

  As they watched him head back to the band, Piper finished McDow’s interrupted sentence. “Carl’s bruises were probably not as bad as the emotional scars he must have been left with.”

  “The list of people who may have had reason to knock off Raffaele Conti is growing,” Gil said.

  After listening to a few more numbers, Piper told Gil she was ready to leave. They’d accomplished what they’d come for, and her eardrums—and most probably Gil’s—were on sensory overload. They were stepping out of O’Hara’s when she spotted Scott in the parking lot, closing the door of his rented red Volvo. As he turned to head their way, his eyes were cast down, and Piper knew she could probably move off unseen, if she chose. But something about Scott’s manner made her wait.

  When he looked up, Scott cried, “Piper!” His eyes then shifted to Gil, and his surprise increased, followed by puzzlement as he looked back and forth between the two.

  “Hello, Scott,” Piper said. “Have you met Gil?”

  The two men shook hands as Piper added last names but no explanation of Gil’s and her presence there together. She found herself mischievously enjoying Scott’s perplexity, and Gil, who must have picked up on that, simply said, “The band’s pretty good tonight. As is the Guinness.”

  “I could hear the music from the road,” Scott said, after more glances between the two. “It’s why I stopped. I just spent the last two hours at Emma Leahy’s house.”

  “Ah,” Piper said. “So you’ve joined her group?”

  Scott heaved a sigh. “There didn’t seem to be much choice. Plus, I was under the impression that you . . . we
ll, never mind.” He rolled his eyes. “For two hours we drank tea and ate cookies as Mrs. Tilley took notes on the very few points that came up regarding the Conti murder. Mostly, though, Phil Laseter and Don Tucker reminisced about the first cars they’d ever owned and how little they paid for them, while Emma and Mrs. Tilley debated about the best places to find a good rib roast or get hair perms. It only ended because it was getting late. Apparently all four turn in no later than nine thirty.”

  Piper fought a smile. “So Don Tucker was there, too? I thought he’d already shared all he’d witnessed at the Cloverton.”

  Scott nodded glumly. “He rehashed the details a couple of times. Before moving on to the subject of cars, that is.”

  “Will you be meeting again?”

  Another sigh. “We’ve all been given missions to report back on. Mine is to establish the whereabouts of the Bianconeri team members at the time of the murder. I could tell them what the answer will be right now: sound asleep in bed.”

  “Well, that should save you a lot of time,” Gil said. He made a show of looking at his watch. “Whoo! Almost ten! Way past my bedtime. Nice meeting you, Mr. Littleton.”

  Piper bid Scott a good night and took Gil’s arm to walk off toward his car, feeling Scott’s eyes on her back. Her ex-fiancé had had a tedious evening that may have turned even more disconcerting after running into her. She grinned.

  After all the grief Scott had given her? He deserved it!

  16

  “Wow, poor Mr. Ehlers,” Amy said. She slit the tape on a newly arrived box of pickling spices that she’d set onto one of the shop stools. “I’d never guess in a million years that he’d ever been picked on. But then, I’ve only known him as the employer of some of my friends—in other words, as the in-charge person.”

  “Everyone went through a growing-up period,” Piper said. She stood at the shelf where the new spices would be set and shifted some of the jars. “Some had it rougher than others. Those tough times affect who they came to be, for better or worse.”

  “I know what you mean,” Amy agreed, pulling out a jar of peppercorns and checking the label. “Like, this girl I knew whose little brother was in a really bad accident? She had to drop out of drama club and all her after-school stuff to help her mom take care of him. I know it was really hard for her at the time. But she came through it with an interest in health care she never had before, and now she’s in college majoring in premed!”

  “Good for her. That experience could have so easily gone another way, like getting angry over how her life was messed up and maybe acting out in retaliation.” Piper took the jars that Amy handed her and set them in place.

  “Mr. Ehlers came out of his bad experience okay, wouldn’t you say?” Amy asked. She passed over two more spice jars.

  “By all appearances. But you said his restaurant was already struggling when Conti made those cruel remarks on the radio. Anyone would be furious at that alone. But Carl Ehlers also had his history with Conti, which surely ratcheted up his reaction.”

  “Enough to make him grab a gun and go out looking to kill Conti?”

  “Well, he certainly didn’t do it right away,” Piper said, “if he did it at all. There was a lapse of almost a whole day between the radio interview and the murder.”

  Amy pulled out two more spice jars and held them out. “Time to plan? Get hold of a gun and watch for an opportunity?”

  “Maybe.” Piper took the next jars from her assistant but held on to them a moment, thinking. “But that doesn’t sound like him, does it? Martin McDow said that the seventeen-year-old Carl lit into Conti when he’d finally had enough, doing it in front of everybody, which got him fired. He didn’t wait and try to catch Conti alone and unawares.”

  “He’s older now,” Amy pointed out. “And smarter.”

  “True,” Piper acknowledged. “At least I hope the smarter part is true, because if he’s smarter than his teenage self, he will also have learned how to handle his emotions and not run off and murder Conti.”

  “But you’re trying to prove it wasn’t Mr. Standley, so it has to be somebody else.”

  “I know, I know.” Piper sighed. “But I don’t want it to be anyone who’s been pretty decent up until now, and whose life, and that of everyone around him, would be ruined.”

  “I think what you really want is for it not to be a Cloverdalian,” Amy said.

  “You’re right, I don’t,” Piper admitted, then said wistfully, “I like this town, and I like thinking that its residents, quirks and all, are good people.”

  “I do, too,” Amy said, then grinned. “So, why don’t we focus only on nonresidents? Conti’s widow, for one?”

  Piper smiled. “That would be less distressing, for sure. But Frederico fits into that category, too, remember.”

  “Frederico! But he’s way too nice.”

  “As nice as our locals?” Piper asked.

  Amy laughed. “Okay, so our murderer will be whoever it will be, and we’ll just have to deal with it. But first we have to identify him or her.”

  “And the sooner the better, for Gerald Standley’s sake,” Piper said. She set the jars she’d been holding onto the shelf. “Hand me two more mustard seeds. The rest of those can stay in the back for now.”

  Amy pulled out the two jars for Piper, then folded up the box lids. As she was hefting the box up, Erin Healy entered the shop. “Hey, Erin!” Amy greeted her friend. “Off duty from the doctor’s office?”

  “Uh-huh,” Erin said. “Half day on Wednesdays.” She plopped herself down on a nearby stool, looking dejected. “You know I love my job, normally. Dr. Dickerson’s a great boss. But lately I can hardly wait to leave.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Amy asked. She set her spice carton on the counter next to Erin. “Lots of sick people, coughing and hacking?”

  Erin shook her head. “No more than usual. It’s the chatter going on in the waiting room that I hear. It’s all about the murder, and most everyone is convinced that the police believe Mr. Standley did it and that it’s just a matter of time before he’s charged.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “And I have to pretend I’m not hearing any of it while I’m setting up new appointments or hanging on the phone waiting for test results. I’m sure Dr. Dickerson wouldn’t like me getting into arguments with his patients, anyway.”

  Piper couldn’t imagine mild-mannered Erin getting into an argument with anybody. But she could guess at the turmoil going on inside the girl as she was forced to listen to opinions she strongly disagreed with.

  “I did pick up something that might be useful,” Erin said after a moment.

  “Oh?” Piper and Amy said together, both instantly alert.

  Erin drew a breath. “Apparently Mrs. Conti—Signora Conti?—and the Bianconeri coach—what is his name?”

  “Tortorelli,” Piper supplied.

  Erin nodded, taking that in. “Well, they’ve been seen together a lot.”

  “That seems normal,” Amy said. “Doesn’t it? After all, who else does she know here besides the coach and team?”

  “Yes,” Erin agreed, “but the implication was that they seemed to be on much closer terms than you’d expect.” Erin shrugged, looking distressed. “I don’t know. I’m just passing it on. And I wouldn’t do that if I weren’t so worried for Mr. Standley and his family.”

  Piper reached out to squeeze her arm. “We know you wouldn’t. But this could be very helpful, if it’s true. Did you catch where they’ve been seen?”

  Erin nodded. “Walking through Sullivan Park, for one. Then at that Mexican restaurant over in Bellingham. The suggestion was that they went out of town to avoid being seen together so much.”

  “The Mariachi?” Amy asked. When Erin nodded she added, “Caitlyn Weber waits tables there.”

  “That’s right, she does,” Erin agreed.
r />   “We should check with her. Maybe she’s seen them or even waited on them.”

  “It can’t hurt,” Piper said. “Though the odds of that surely can’t be great.”

  “One way to find out.” Amy had her cell phone out in a flash and began pulling up Caitlyn’s number. As Piper and Erin watched, Amy made the connection, listened for a moment, then made a face. “Voice mail.” She waited another second, then said into the phone, “Hey, Caitlyn, it’s Amy. Give me a call, or come on by if you’re in the neighborhood. I’m at the pickling shop right now. Thanks!” She disconnected and put her phone away. “She’ll get back to me,” she assured Piper. “She’s a good kid.”

  Amy turned to Erin. “Remember her in that play? Once Upon a Mattress?”

  “I do! She grew her hair for a year just so she’d look the part. Blond hair down to her waist!” Erin said to Piper, her brown eyes wide, having just painted a dramatic picture for Piper.

  That image of Caitlyn stayed with Piper, which is why, when a young woman with intricately braided black hair walked into her shop an hour or so later, Piper made no connection whatsoever to the person they’d discussed, even when the girl asked for Amy.

  “Amy’s left for the day,” Piper said. “You might be able to catch her at A La Carte, though she’ll probably be pretty busy cooking up today’s entrées.”

  “Darn! I knew I should have called. But her message said she was here. Course,” she added with a good-natured wince, “that was at least an hour ago.”

  “Caitlyn Weber?” Piper ventured tentatively.

  “That’s me.” The girl grinned, scarlet-glossed lips parting to reveal perfect white teeth.

  “I guess I’m just a little surprised,” Piper admitted. “I expected someone with blond hair.”

  Caitlyn laughed. “Oh, that was for another part. Dark hair goes much better with the peasant blouse and flowered skirt I wear at the Mariachi.”

  Well, the girl certainly took her work seriously, Piper thought, though she hadn’t gone as far as covering her blue eyes with brown contacts—yet. Piper also wasn’t sure how authentically Mexican the theater masks tattoo was that she’d spotted peeking out below Caitlyn’s orange crop pants.