License to Dill

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  Piper was starting to feel as though the trail she was following were made of cucumber vines that forever branched off but were producing nothing. Was she missing a crucial signpost that pointed in the right direction? She must be. She’d have to look harder—and quickly, before signs faded and those vines withered away into dust.

  20

  Don Tucker had been gone from the shop only a minute or so when Aunt Judy walked in. “I got your text last night that you were safely home from the Mariachi, but I just felt like checking in on you anyway. I know I’m being silly, but—”

  “Not at all. You’re just acting like my stand-in mom again, something I always appreciated, especially when my mom and dad were halfway across the world and out of reach.”

  “It was Uncle Frank’s and my privilege to step in for your folks when needed. Have you heard from them lately?”

  “Got a postcard from Bulgaria where they’ve been managing a dig on a Thracian site. I had to look that up. Thracians were ancient Greeks. Mom’s promised to do a Skype chat as soon as they get back to Sofia and find reliable Internet.”

  “Won’t that be nice! Be sure and give them my love.”

  “I will. Mind continuing this in the back?” Piper asked, waving her aunt toward the workroom. “I was chopping up Uncle Frank’s green tomatoes for relish when Don Tucker interrupted me.”

  “Can I help?” Aunt Judy asked, following Piper.

  Piper shook her head. “I just have one more batch to do before I mix in the salt and let it stand for a few hours.” She filled the food processor with the last of her tomatoes and peppers, then pulsed the machine several times, skipping her previous hummed accompaniment.

  As Piper emptied the finely chopped vegetables into a large preserving pan with the rest of the lot, Aunt Judy asked, “What was Don Tucker doing here?” She reached for the salt and handed it to Piper.

  “He’s part of Emma Leahy’s crime-solving team, and he’d hoped I would join them.” Piper measured out the salt and stirred it into her tomatoes. “We did a little brainstorming about Raffaele Conti while Don was here, and he gave me the names of the women who’d been hanging around Conti. I’m doubly glad you stopped in. I’d like to go over the list with you.”

  “Certainly. But how will this help Gerald Standley?”

  “I think the more information we have on where Conti had been before driving back to the hotel that night the better.” She covered the preserving pan and, ignoring the cleanup for the moment, pulled the list of names out of her pocket. “Help me figure out who Conti might have been visiting who wouldn’t want that fact known,” she said, handing over the sheet of paper.

  “Oh dear,” Aunt Judy said, taking the paper somewhat reluctantly and studying it. “Well, you can cross Julia Widner off right away,” she said. “I happen to know she was at her mother’s all night. Poor Marjorie took a tumble off her back porch steps Saturday afternoon trying to scoop up that big old cat of hers and ended up spraining an ankle. She was lucky she didn’t break anything. Anyway, when I heard about it and called to see if there was anything I could do, Marjorie said Julia had been staying with her after bringing her home from the emergency room.” Aunt Judy winced. “I’m not sure how that’s been going. Those two will argue about what time the sun came up that morning.”

  Piper smiled. “So Julia Widner is out. Anyone else?”

  “Well, I don’t know what Debra Babcock may or may not have been doing that night, but I do know her house is in the wrong direction. Raffaele Conti wouldn’t be driving anywhere near the Standley farm if he was coming back from her place.”

  Aunt Judy shook her head over the next name. “Tammy Quimby can be a silly bubblehead sometimes, but her husband adores her and treats her like a queen. I think she at least has the sense not to jeopardize that. I’d say if Tammy were hanging around Raffaele Conti, it was simply because of all the excitement and publicity surrounding him. Or maybe to pretend she was sixteen again. But nothing more.”

  Aunt Judy grew somber as she pondered the last two names. “Wendy Prizer,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Her house is the right direction beyond Gerald Standley’s farm. So is Lisa Brinkman’s, but Lisa has a full house with her family, which would make it highly difficult, I’d imagine, to arrange anything of this sort. Wendy, though, lives alone since she and Roger separated.”

  “Would you pick Wendy, then, as the most likely person on this list for Conti to have been visiting?”

  Aunt Judy grimaced. “Since it’s just between you and me, and because it’s to help Gerald, then I’d have to say yes, there’s a good chance it’s Wendy.”

  “You said she’s separated. Is her husband in the area?”

  “No, and that was probably part of their problem. Roger was always away, working on oil rigs. He was in Alaska at one point for several months, which must have put a strain on their marriage. I believe he’s down in Louisiana right now,” Aunt Judy said. “But there’s another problem.” Aunt Judy’s brow furrowed about as deeply as Piper had ever seen it.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, from what I’ve heard, after the separation Wendy started seeing Carl.”

  “Carl Ehlers?”

  Aunt Judy nodded. “You know I don’t spread gossip, Piper, but I can’t always avoid hearing it. Apparently, Wendy and Carl had once been an item. I mean years ago.” Aunt Judy sighed. “But Wendy ended up choosing Roger over Carl, which reportedly broke Carl’s heart. He never married, you know. He may have been pining for Wendy all this time and felt this was his second chance.”

  “Until Raffaele Conti showed up and threw a wrench in the works.”

  Aunt Judy looked at Piper unhappily. “Possibly so.”

  Piper was pondering what to do with what Aunt Judy had told her, when Gil Williams came into the pickling shop, holding a small, white envelope.

  “This was delivered to me by mistake,” he said, handing it to Piper.

  She glanced at it. “Looks like a bill. Sure you don’t want to keep it?”

  Gil smiled. “I have plenty of my own, but thanks.”

  “If you have a few minutes, I’ve got plenty to update you on,” Piper said, slipping the envelope unopened into her “bills” drawer.

  “Go right ahead,” Gil said. He settled onto a stool. “I left my shop open, but I can keep an eye on it through your windows. What’s been happening?”

  Piper took a deep breath before launching into a description of her trip to the Mariachi with Miranda, along with her thoughts on Frederico and the missing gun. She finished up with her theory that Raffaele Conti had been returning that night from a visit to a certain woman, but kept Wendy Prizer’s name to herself for the time being. “This woman,” she said, “also has—or had until Conti came along—a romantic connection to Carl Ehlers.”

  “Hmm. So the motive for Mr. Ehlers to commit murder grows stronger.”

  “Theoretically, yes, but that’s the problem,” Piper said. “All I have so far are theories and motives, which might be all the sheriff has as well, and I’m finding that extremely frustrating.” She bounced a tightly curled fist on the counter. “How will anyone be able to come up with concrete evidence, something that will clear Gerald Standley from suspicion and remove a murderer from our midst?”

  Gil reached over to pat her hand. “Give it time . . .” he began, but turned his head as the bell on Piper’s door jingled.

  “Hey, guess what!” Scott called out as he whirled in, his face bright until he spotted Gil. “Oh!” His gaze then shifted to Gil’s hand, which covered Piper’s. “Er . . . hi, there,” Scott said. “You’re, um, ah . . .” He fumbled for a name.

  “Gil Williams,” Gil supplied smilingly as he swiveled to face Scott more squarely. “And you’re Scott Littleton, aren’t you? We met the other night outside of O’Hara’s.”

 
“Right!” Scott’s eyes moved back and forth between Gil and Piper, much as they had the other night in the O’Hara’s parking lot. Piper watched, amused at her ex-fiancé’s misplaced consternation.

  “Did you enjoy the band?” Gil asked.

  “Band? Oh, that Irish group. Yes, they were fine. I didn’t stay long, though.” Scott cleared his throat. “I just wanted to tell you, Piper, that I’ve moved into my new office down the street.”

  Gil stood, having noticed a customer heading into his bookshop. “I’ll be going,” he said. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Littleton.”

  “Scott,” Scott said automatically as Gil headed for the door. “Oh, and if you happen to need a lawyer . . .” He pulled out a card to hand to Gil. “I just had these printed up.”

  Gil gave the card a quick glance before slipping it into a sweater pocket. “Let’s hope any legal need that comes up will be of a routine nature,” he said with a smile.

  “Anything. Anything at all.”

  As Gil took off, Piper said, “Things have moved fast for you, Scott.”

  “It’s going great. You have to see the new digs. Come on over.”

  Piper shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t.”

  Scott glanced back at the door Gil had just closed behind himself but seemed surprisingly unable to articulate what was probably going through his head. This was a first for Scott, which made Piper struggle not to laugh. She was about to dispel Scott’s off-base assumptions when Amy rushed through the door.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she cried, pulling off a cream-colored cardigan as she spoke, her red curls flying.

  “Are you? Late, I mean.” Piper glanced at the clock. She’d lost track of time but realized over two hours had flown by since she’d opened her shop. “Wow, all of ten minutes,” she said. “Horrendous!”

  As Amy scuttled into the back room, Scott said, “Great! There’s someone here to watch the shop, so you can come see my office now. I want your opinion on which of my travel photos I should hang on the waiting room wall. We could grab a nice lunch after. Or come after closing, and we’ll head out for dinner afterward.”

  Piper looked at Scott with disbelief. What happened to their agreement to give her space? Was the man’s memory that short? Or had he simply decided to disregard it? Highly annoyed, she firmly said, “No, Scott,” and quickly switched the subject. “Don Tucker stopped in earlier. He sounds as determined as Emma Leahy to track down Raffaele Conti’s murderer.”

  Scott blinked at the sudden change of direction, but said, “Does he? I’m surprised. I got the impression all he was interested in was ancient cars. That, and Emma Leahy’s homemade cookies.” He puffed his cheeks and blew out. “They’re having another meeting tonight. I’ve got to get out of it somehow.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Piper said, still aggravated and feeling Scott had earned a penance.

  “Huh?”

  “Emma, Don, Phil Laseter, and Joan Tilley are pillars of the community. You don’t want to offend them just as you’re establishing your law practice.” Piper didn’t know if any of that foursome would be described as a pillar or not, but they were certainly respected townspersons, she justified.

  “But—” Scott protested.

  “No, really, I wouldn’t advise it.” Piper heard the soft clatter of Amy cleaning up the mess from the green tomato relish project.

  “Well, if you think so . . .”

  “I do, Scott.”

  “Then I guess I’ll show up,” he grumbled. “Emma assigned me the task of doing an Internet search on all the Bianconeri team members and reporting on it. Huge waste of time.”

  “I’d get busy on it if I were you,” Piper said solemnly.

  Scott heaved a tremendous sigh. “Like I don’t have enough to do.” With drooped shoulders, he turned to leave while Piper watched, keeping a sympathetic but encouraging expression on her face.

  Once he was out the door, a small grin replaced the look of sympathy, and Piper went back to lend a hand in Amy’s cleanup efforts.

  21

  “She’s his new office assistant?” Amy stared openmouthed. Piper had just explained who the mystery woman was, the woman who’d been seen dining the other night with Ben at the Mariachi. The Cloverdale gossip mill had, of course, clued in Amy and brought about her worry.

  “Her name’s Leila Something-or-other,” Piper added. “I was a bit distracted when Ben was making the introduction and didn’t catch everything.” Piper and Amy were tidying up the shelves at the front of the shop after a flurry of customers had swept through.

  “But why did he take her out to dinner? And in Bellingham? Why not here in Cloverdale?”

  Piper shrugged. “All I know is she likes Mexican food.”

  “Something’s weird there.”

  Piper didn’t mention Leila’s resemblance to Amy, which to Piper was the weird part. “Does Erin know about her?” she asked.

  Amy shook her head. “I don’t know. Everyone’s waiting to see.”

  “Well, this may be a big nothing as far as Erin and Ben’s relationship is concerned. But if not, it should probably be left for the two of them to work out alone.”

  “I know,” Amy said, straightening a row of spice jars. “We all just care about Erin a lot. Nobody wants to see her get hurt.”

  “And nobody can really prevent it, if it’s going to happen. I don’t think Ben is the cheating type, do you? He’s simply hired an assistant who happens to be fairly attractive. Maybe she’s a real wiz on the computer.” And maybe Ben had never quite gotten over his unrequited, head-over-heels crush on pretty, red-haired, oblivious Amy, which might have influenced his assessment of Leila What’s-her-name’s office skills. But Piper was definitely going to keep that thought to herself.

  “Amy,” she asked, “do you know anything about Wendy Prizer?”

  “Mrs. Prizer? You mean the tai chi teacher?”

  “Is that what she does?”

  “Uh-huh. Over at the community center. Are you interested in taking classes?”

  “I might be.” Piper stepped over to her laptop, which, during shop hours, she kept near the cash register for quick access. Sometimes customers asked pickling questions that she couldn’t answer but might find the solution with a few clicks on the laptop. She woke up the device and ran a search for the community center’s website. When she found it, she checked the schedule of classes. Wendy Prizer, it turned out, was presently conducting a tai chi class.

  “Mind watching the store on your own for a bit?” Piper asked, clicking out of the site. She untied her apron as she headed over to grab her jacket.

  “Sure,” Amy said, agreeable as usual but surprised at the suddenness. “Have an urgent need for exercise?”

  “Yes, but for my brain cells rather than my muscles. I’ll tell you more when I get back.”

  The community center was a one-story redbrick building framed by tall trees dressed in their autumn finery. The flower gardens flanking the front door were tidy but looked ready to hunker down for the coming winter, their few remaining blooms pale and drooping. Piper pulled into a parking spot as memories of crafting classes taken during her childhood summers with Aunt Judy and Uncle Frank flooded her mind. Thanks to at least one of those classes, Aunt Judy now had enough yarn-wrapped or photo-decorated tin can pencil holders to last her a lifetime.

  Piper walked into the center and spotted a spikey-haired teen sitting at a desk and sipping from a straw stuck into a huge frosty cup as she paged through a magazine.

  “Hi,” Piper said as she approached. “I’m looking for Mrs. Prizer’s tai chi class.”

  The girl glanced up and waved her drink cup vaguely behind her. “Room C. It’s already started, though.”

  “That’s okay. I was hoping to talk to Mrs. Prizer when she has a minute.”

  The girl glanced
at the clock. “She’s got another ten minutes to go. You can wait outside the room.”

  The teen had already returned to her magazine by the time Piper said, “Thanks.” She ambled toward Room C, following the sound of soft, Asian-sounding music. The door was open, so Piper stood to the side but close enough to see in without disturbing the group. About a dozen people—mostly women—of various ages were gracefully lifting arms and shifting weight in place, most sock-footed and all intensely focused as their teacher—Wendy Prizer, she presumed—led them through various moves.

  Piper found herself fascinated, never having explored the intricacies of the exotic exercise. It looked both easy and difficult at the same time since none of the positions appeared strenuous, but the chain of steps, continually flowing as they did from one to another, clearly required concentration and memory. The expressions on the faces of the students ranged from otherworldly relaxed to a squinty-eyed, pinch-lipped look that hinted at inner struggles.

  The class continued for several minutes in that strain until the music came to an end and the movements stopped. Wendy Prizer praised her students for their performances, made an announcement about the upcoming schedule, then wished them all a restful day. As the group gathered belongings and began to file out of the room, Piper slipped in.

  Wendy stood near a table in the corner speaking with one class member, a middle-aged woman in gray sweats and a tee. Piper hung back, waiting, then moved forward when they’d finished.

  “Mrs. Prizer?”

  Wendy Prizer, slim, dressed in black yoga pants and a red tank, turned with a smile. “Yes?” Close-up, Piper saw that she looked near her probable age of late forties, though it was definitely a trim and healthy-looking late forties. Her long brown hair, which held a few strands of gray, was pulled back into a ponytail, and her makeup-free face, while not cover-girl beautiful, had a friendly prettiness that made it easy to understand the attention from such men as Carl Ehlers and Raffaele Conti.