License to Dill

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  “Really!” Piper stared at Scott, who nodded. “Well, that puts an interesting wrinkle on things, doesn’t it?”

  “I’d say so,” Scott agreed.

  “So you’re saying you think Mrs. Conti was trying to kill you as you were driving back from the hospital?” Sheriff Carlyle gazed at Piper from behind his desk, his chair tipped back on its spring. She had gone to his office early, before opening up Piper’s Picklings that morning, and perched on the edge of a wooden chair on the opposite side of his desk.

  “I’m saying it could have been Francesca Conti.”

  “But you couldn’t see the driver, right?”

  “Right, and I’m not making an accusation. I just wanted to report what happened to me last night and to let you know what Scott found about her background.”

  The sheriff considered her thoughtfully. “I got your message about the whine Josiah Borkman heard coming from the car involved in the bike injury.”

  “And?”

  “And we’re still checking into Coach Tortorelli’s rental car, which he exchanged for a new one.”

  “Still checking . . . ?”

  Sheriff Carlyle sighed. “The car he returned was rented out almost immediately to someone who has left the area.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “It’s also more than I needed to tell you. But I appreciate your passing information directly to me instead of spreading it around town, as some might do.”

  “Oh, I would never—”

  “Or acting on the information,” he added, “which I fully expect you not to do.”

  “I’m only—”

  “Sheriff?” A deputy leaned into the office after a quick knock. “That call you were waiting for . . . ?” He gestured toward Carlyle’s phone. “Line two.”

  “Right.” Sheriff Carlyle laid his hand on the phone and said to Piper, “Just consider where your ‘only’ actions got you last night. Then there’s the matter of that threatening text message.”

  “Did you—?” Piper began, but Carlyle shook his head.

  “No luck tracing it. But no reports that anyone else got anything similar, which tells me you need to take it seriously.” He softened his tone. “I’m paid to protect the citizens of Cloverdale. Sometimes that protection takes the form of advice, which I’ve just given you. I sincerely hope you’ll heed it and leave the investigating to me. Excuse me now.”

  “Of course.” Piper popped up, just as glad to end the discussion. As she pulled the office door closed behind her, she heard the sheriff saying, “Carlyle here. What do you have for me?” and wondered if the call had anything to do with Tortorelli’s rental car or Raffaele Conti’s murder in general.

  Sheriff Carlyle’s advice was sensible, she knew. But she couldn’t help thinking that the solution to Conti’s murder was very near. The murderer must have been keenly worried about where Piper’s investigation was taking her—a direction the sheriff’s investigation had missed. If she was careful—and she fully intended to keep away from deserted highways at night—surely she should be able to come up with that deciding clue and make the sheriff’s warnings unneeded.

  Piper was driving down Beech Street, heading back to her shop, when she spotted Ben Schaeffer’s new assistant, Leila, on a corner, looking lost. Piper pulled over and lowered her window.

  “Hi! Need some help?”

  Leila was dressed in a short black pencil skirt topped with a cropped gray tweed jacket. A green ruffled blouse softened the businesslike look. Leila leaned down to Piper’s car window, holding back her long red hair as a sudden gust of wind grabbed it.

  “You’re Piper, aren’t you? I met you at the Mariachi.”

  “That’s right. How’s the new job going?”

  “It’s been great! Really great!” Her lightly penciled brows pulled together in a tiny frown. “But I’m having a little problem right now.”

  “That’s why I stopped. How can I help?”

  “You can tell me where to find the Eggs-tra Special Café. I thought it was around here, but it’s not.”

  “Half a block that way.” Piper pointed down Fourth Street, and Leila turned to look.

  “I see it! Thank goodness! I thought I was going to be late. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome. Catching a quick breakfast before work?” Piper assumed this was one of the alternate Saturdays that Ben’s office was open.

  “Yes, but maybe not so quick.” Leila grinned. “Ben was shocked when I admitted I never had more than a glass of juice before coming in to work. He claims a hearty breakfast is the only way to start the day. So we’re meeting at Eggs-tra, where he says he’ll order something amazing for both of us.” She giggled and patted her very flat stomach. “I may not have to eat the rest of the day!”

  Piper managed to smile before Leila took off but found herself thinking poor Erin. She drove on, shaking her head but aware there was little to be done. If Ben’s feelings were leading him, however unconsciously, in another direction, well, that was something Ben and Erin would simply need to work out.

  27

  Piper was setting up shop when her cell phone rang. Cautiously checking the number first, she quickly smiled. “Hi there!”

  “Hi, yourself.” Will’s voice matched Piper’s for liveliness but turned serious as he asked about Frederico.

  Piper told him about the soccer player’s grave condition and her attempts to communicate with him. “I think for a moment he was trying to tell me he knew who had tried to run him down.” She paused, then said, “The same person may have followed me from the hospital.”

  “What! What happened?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m fine,” Piper said, choosing to save the details for a later, face-to-face time. “It could have simply been a reckless tailgater. But after what happened to Frederico, I decided to play it safe and turned in to the Harvest Shindig to shake him.”

  “Whoever it was could have waited for you to come back out,” Will said, sounding concerned.

  “I stayed a good while. Then Scott followed me home,” she said, immediately thinking Oops! as it slipped out.

  “Scott?”

  “I ran into him there. It was a relief to come across someone I knew.”

  “I wouldn’t have minded if you’d called me,” Will said.

  “I know. And if your tree farm had been within reach, believe me, you would have found me pounding on your door. This was just how it worked out. In a way, it was lucky Scott was there. He learned something interesting about Francesca Conti that he might not have mentioned otherwise.” Piper told Will about Francesca’s past sports car racing activities, adding that she’d already passed that on to the sheriff.

  “Hmm,” Will said. “I’d be just as glad if it turned out to be the wife. Much better for the town.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” She glanced up to see Emma Leahy heading toward her shop. “I have to go. Talk to you later.” She disconnected as Emma pushed through the door, dressed, of course, in her usual gardening clothes.

  “I just came from talking with your young lawyer,” Emma said.

  I don’t have a young lawyer, Piper wanted to say but instead asked, “Scott Littleton?”

  Emma threw her a look that said of course. “He told me what happened last night. Wasn’t it fortunate he was there to rescue you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Emma. Actually, I was fine by the time I stumbled across Scott. Just a bit shaken up.”

  “I should think so! Someone definitely wants to keep you from looking into this murder, and we both know it isn’t Gerald Standley. Did you report what happened to the sheriff?”

  “I did, as well as the tidbit about Francesca Conti’s race driving that Scott discovered.”

  “Yes, that was clever of him to discover that. We’re so lucky Scott came to Cloverdale when h
e did, aren’t we?” Piper mumbled a vague agreement, and Emma added, “I can’t wait to tell the others.”

  “By ‘others’ I assume you mean your group,” Piper said. “Would you see that they keep that information to themselves for now? And my incident on the road, too? I haven’t told Aunt Judy about that yet, and I’d rather she hear about it from me.”

  “Absolutely,” Emma said, patting Piper’s hand. “What about Frederico? How is the young man doing?”

  “Badly injured and unconscious, but Miranda claims to see signs of improvement. I did get to speak to him, very briefly, and while I can’t say for sure, he may have actually responded when I asked if he could identify the driver.”

  “That would be excellent. I hope you’re right and that he will provide the final proof to put our murderer”—Emma lowered her voice—“who you and I both know it must be—behind bars.”

  Piper nodded general agreement, though she was not as ready as Emma to pronounce Francesca to be her husband’s murderer, tempting though that was. There were still questions that remained to be answered. Piper hoped those answers would come soon.

  “Ben’s been taking Leila to breakfast?” Amy paused in the middle of tying on her green apron, her expression incredulous.

  “Just the once that I know of,” Piper clarified. “This morning.”

  “But what boss takes his employee to breakfast?”

  “It happens,” Piper said, playing devil’s advocate. “When I worked in Albany, we sometimes had breakfast meetings.”

  “That’s different.” Amy shook her head firmly. “What Leila described wasn’t a business meeting. Ben shouldn’t be treating his assistant to meals right and left. Or worrying about her diet. First the Mariachi, now this. It’s not a good sign.”

  “Have you talked to Erin yet?”

  “No, and that’s very odd. Usually she returns my calls the same day.”

  “Well, if you reach her, I’d suggest letting her take the lead, waiting to see what she wants to talk about.”

  “Don’t you think she should know what Ben’s doing behind her back?”

  “I suspect she’s heard about it, don’t you? I mean, does anything of that sort go unnoticed in this town?” Piper was remembering her early dates with Will being commented on—many times—by people she wouldn’t have expected to have noticed or cared, a phenomenon she never experienced in Albany.

  Amy nodded. “You’re right. Someone must have clued Erin in by now.” She looked worried. “All the more reason to get in touch with her. I hope she isn’t deliberately avoiding her friends. Erin should know we’re here for her.”

  “I’m sure she does. Maybe she just needs a little time. She may be getting her own thoughts together.”

  Amy looked uncertain, but before she could say anything more, Gil Williams appeared at the shop door. Piper had asked him to stop over, wanting to tell him about her ordeal of the night before. As soon he came in, she sat him down, checked that no customers were heading their way, then disclosed to both Gil and Amy the details of her visit with Frederico and her harrowing drive afterward.

  “Wow!” Amy said, her eyes round.

  “Who do you suppose it was?” Gil asked.

  “Francesca Conti is a strong possibility,” Piper said. She told him what Scott had learned. “But I don’t see how she would have known where I was.”

  “Who did know?” Gil asked.

  Piper thought about that. Who had she mentioned her plans to visit Frederico to? “You, of course,” she said with a hint of a smile before scouring her memory further. “I said something to Crystal.” When Gil looked blank, she explained, “Crystal works at Carlo’s Pizzeria. She was in here with a friend during her break time and is the reason I knew about the Harvest Shindig. I told her I couldn’t use the discount coupon she offered me because I was going to the hospital.”

  “She could have told Carl Ehlers that!” Amy said.

  “Could have,” Gil agreed. “Would she, though? I mean, how likely is it that the subject would come up?”

  “Crystal is very chatty,” Piper said. “She could have talked about what she did during her time off. Or, if Carl were really interested in my whereabouts, he could have asked questions that brought the information out.”

  Gil nodded. “What about Mrs. Conti? Any reason she or the coach would know where you’d be?”

  Piper slowly shook her head. “None that I can think of. She, or they, could simply have followed me to the hospital, though, and waited for an opportunity. Oh!” she said, remembering. “I did tell Don Tucker I was going to see Frederico when he asked about him. I’d called Don to ask about Coach Tortorelli’s rental car.”

  “Would Mr. Tucker have let that slip somehow to the Italians?” Amy asked.

  “I can’t see that happening. Don is part of Emma Leahy’s group, and he’s as suspicious of Francesca and Tortorelli as we are.”

  “It looks like you need to be more cautious about what you say to whom,” Gil said. “You can’t always trust that anything, anything at all, that you say to one person won’t be spread, however innocently, to others. It’s advice we hear about posting things on the Internet and how easily it can be passed around. The same might be said for Cloverdale, which has its own information network in place.”

  Amy nodded agreement, possibly thinking about what they’d discussed that morning—that Erin was likely aware of Ben’s activities.

  “You’re right,” Piper said. “I’ll watch my mouth more carefully from now on.”

  Amy had left for A La Carte, and traffic to the shop had slowed, so Piper went to the back to work on the small pumpkins Uncle Frank had given her. She’d come across a recipe for pumpkin chips, something she’d never tried, and thought the work would offer a double benefit—an opportunity to pull her thoughts together and an interesting new preserve.

  She was busy cutting through the orange flesh and scraping out seeds, humming along with a soothing rendition of “Poor Wand’ring One” that she’d downloaded to her iPod, when she thought she heard someone come into the shop. Setting down her knife and wiping her hands on a towel, Piper popped out to check, but found no one there. Thinking it had been something in the music that she’d heard, she returned to her work, peeling and cutting her pumpkins into thin slices. When she’d layered her slices in a preserving pan along with the sugar, spices, and freshly squeezed lemon juice the recipe called for, she covered everything and set the pan in her refrigerator to let all the delicious flavors blend.

  Piper turned to cleaning up her area, dumping peels and the stringy inner pumpkin mess into the garbage and scrubbing her cutting blocks clean. She then went out front to see what needed to be done before closing up. To her surprise, a fruit basket wrapped in cellophane and tied with a red bow sat on her counter.

  There was a note underneath. Piper slipped it out to read:

  Didn’t want to disturb you and have to run. The cheerleaders brought this for Frederico. Nice of them, but . . . Thought you’d like it? Many thanks for everything.

  It was signed Miranda.

  Piper admired the colorful pyramid of oranges, apples, and grapes crowned with a single, beautiful pear. That particular fruit had ripened to a perfect, blemish-free yellow with a touch of blush hinting at soft, juicy, sweet flesh. It practically purred Taste me.

  Piper reached toward the bow.

  28

  Piper’s shop phone rang, and she left the fruit basket to go answer it.

  “Miss Lamb? This is Lorraine Jackson. I was wondering if you carried crushed fenugreek?”

  “Fenugreek?” Piper thought for a moment. “I’m sure I carry it, but let me check if it’s in stock.” Piper set down the phone and hurried over to her spice shelves. She ran her finger along the alphabetically arranged jars and came to an empty space next to fennel.

  “I’m so sorry, but
I’m totally out,” she reported. Hearing a sigh, she quickly added, “I can probably get it within two days. Would you like me to?”

  “Oh, please do! I have this lovely recipe for Indian lemon pickle that I got from my friend’s mother. I’m so eager to try it.”

  Piper took down Lorraine’s contact information and promised to let her know the instant the fenugreek arrived. She also hoped that when she came to pick it up the woman would be open to sharing her recipe.

  That done, Piper returned to her fruit basket. Instead of untying the red bow at the top of the basket, she picked up the note that lay beside it. Piper didn’t know Miranda’s handwriting, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she did. The few words on the note had been printed, scribbled really, as though in haste. That made sense, since Miranda certainly had much to catch up with during the minimal time she took away from Frederico’s side.

  Piper knew she could have been heard chopping busily in the back. So leaving the fruit basket with a note to save both women time and where Piper would quickly find it was reasonable.

  She loosened the bow and pulled back the cellophane. The perfect pear caught the sun beaming through the window and fairly glowed. Instead of plucking off the luscious-looking fruit and biting into it, though, Piper pulled out her phone. She scrolled down the names and chose Miranda’s number—and got voice mail. Piper disconnected and immediately called at the Standley house. Denise Standley answered.

  “Denise, this is Piper. Is Miranda there?”

  “No, she isn’t. I’m sure she’s at the hospital right now.”

  “She probably turns her phone off while she’s there, right?” Piper asked.

  “Yes, that’s the rule. She does leave the area and check in with me once in a while. Would you like me to give her a message?”

  “Ask her to call me, please. It’s important.”

  Denise promised she would, and Piper sat down, staring at the pyramid of fruit perched on her counter.

  She’d closed up shop by the time Miranda called, and Piper explained her concern.