“Bad news,” she said. “Joan Tilley’s in the hospital. She’s critically ill.
“Oh! I’m so sorry to hear that. What’s wrong?”
Clearly struggling with her emotions, Emma took a moment to answer. “It was very sudden. Luckily her neighbor came by and called the ambulance.” She swallowed. “She had the same symptoms as Dirk Unger.”
“No!” Piper cried. “Mrs. Tilley? How could that be? And why?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense at all. But there’s something else you should know.”
Emma paused, the strain of worry for her friend making her suddenly gulp. When she regained control, she said, “It might have been your cherries. She’d been eating from a jar of your brandied cherries.”
Piper gasped, not knowing which was worse to hear—the illness or the cause. She stared, speechless for several moments. “I can’t believe it! How . . . ?”
Emma shook her head, having no answer to Piper’s unfinished question. “I have to go,” she said. “I just wanted you to know.” She turned and hurried out.
A flood of questions filled Piper’s head as she stared in dismay after her disappearing friend.
Her cherries? It couldn’t possibly be! The thought made her physically ill—though not, she was sure, as ill as poor Mrs. Tilley.
21
Sorry to have to do this.” Sheriff Carlyle added one more jar of Piper’s brandied cherries to the several he’d already boxed up. He’d arrived the next morning with the news that Mrs. Tilley was alive, though still in serious condition, and had confirmed that bloodroot was indeed found in her jar of brandied cherries.
“But it couldn’t have been added during my cooking process,” Piper protested. She’d studied up on bloodroot during her mostly sleepless night. “First of all, no way would it be put there by me or,” she added significantly, “by your daughter. But besides that, bloodroot, I’ve learned, becomes harmless at high heat. It’s only poisonous when it’s eaten fresh.”
The sheriff nodded. “I’m aware of that. Dirk Unger’s was in his salad. A lot of it, and it was fresh. We’re assuming his spicy Italian salad dressing smothered any taste. The bloodroot in Joan Tilley’s jar hadn’t been cooked. It clearly had been added at some point afterward.”
“But . . .” Piper sputtered.
“I’m not necessarily blaming you,” he said, and Piper didn’t much care for the necessarily. “Anyone could have slipped it into one of these jars after you’d finished with them. I don’t see any safety seals on them.”
“The lids are vacuum sealed to the jars as they cool. They become tight enough to actually lift the jar by the lid. Sheriff, if my jars had been opened, that vacuum would have been broken. Any knowledgeable person would notice that.”
“You would hope so,” the sheriff said. “It’s been my experience that not everyone pays attention to things that they should. Now, tell me who has bought your brandied cherries.”
Piper groaned. “I’ve had them in stock since last June. I can’t possibly track down all the sales.”
“All right, let’s start with yesterday’s sales and work backward.”
At that point, and to Piper’s relief, Amy walked in. “Daddy! What are you doing?”
“Sugarplum . . .” the sheriff began gently, but Amy was having none of it.
“I heard about Mrs. Tilley,” she said. “You can’t seriously think she got sick from Piper’s cherries!”
“Bloodroot was in her jar of brandied cherries,” Piper said. “Your father can’t take the chance it might be in any more jars.”
“But—”
“Amy,” the sheriff said, “help Piper remember who bought any of these cherries lately. It’s important.”
“Oh gosh!” Amy sank onto one Piper’s stools. “You sold a bunch of them yesterday before I showed up,” she said to Piper, who agreed.
Piper ticked off several names, which Sheriff Carlyle wrote down. “Sugar Heywood bought lots of it lately,” she said, which made the sheriff look up sharply. “But they were for Jeremy Porter’s dinner of several days ago. Nobody got sick that I know of. And Lydia Porter picked up a jar. She said Mallory loved it, so probably that was okay.”
The sheriff nodded but made a note of it. “Anyone else?”
“I’ll go through my sales slips. But that’ll take time.” Piper had a thought. “Couldn’t someone have simply walked off with a jar, then slipped it back on my shelf after doctoring it?”
“Yes!” Amy cried, jumping up from her stool. “The shop has been super busy lately. Piper and I couldn’t possibly have kept an eye on everyone. Then there’s your party, Piper. Think of all the people who came and milled around.”
A look of pain flashed onto the sheriff’s face. “That’s a possibility,” he admitted. “All the same, please get back to me with your sales records.”
“I will,” Piper promised, feeling that at least some pressure had come off her, personally. At the same time she sympathized with the enormous job the sheriff faced.
He carried off her boxed-up jars without further discussion, and Amy turned to Piper after he’d left. “Does this eliminate Zach, since he hasn’t been around?”
Piper thought about that. “Probably not. It could be argued that Zach had access to one of Sugar’s jars of cherries and could have slipped it back onto my shelf anytime he was here.”
“But it wouldn’t make sense—unless he’s suddenly turned into a psycho killer. There’d be no way he could know who would get that jar. Dirk Unger’s food was poisoned to murder him, and only him. Putting bloodroot in one of your preserves would be a totally random murder.”
“I know, and that could apply to whoever did it. I can’t understand it myself.”
. . .
As the day moved on, Piper began to understand the poisoner’s intention.
“Business is so slow!” Amy said, having waited on only one person, and that occurring early in her shift.
“I’ve noticed,” Piper said, turning to her ringing phone.
“Piper, dear,” Aunt Judy said as soon as Piper picked up. “I’ve been hearing very upsetting things!” She went on to first say that she’d visited Joan Tilley at the hospital and had been dismayed at how wasted she’d appeared. “Joan could barely speak,” Aunt Judy said. “They came terribly close to losing her! But I’ve been assured she’s turned the corner, and that is very comforting. But Piper, dear, the talk is that it was from something in the brandied cherries from your shop. How could that be?”
“I’m afraid that’s true,” Piper said. She told her aunt about the sheriff’s visit and that they’d agreed that bloodroot must have been added after Piper’s cooking process. “He wants me to track down everyone who bought my cherries. I’ve been able to make a dent in that with business being very slow.”
“That’s why I called,” Aunt Judy said. “Word is spreading about the source of Joan’s illness, and people are throwing out anything they bought at your shop. Even the packaged spices. They’re afraid to buy anything more from you. Piper,” she said, her voice breaking, “your business could be ruined!”
. . .
That’s so unfair!” Amy cried, when Piper shared Aunt Judy’s statement.
“Agreed,” Piper said grimly, feeling as though she’d been punched. “But honestly, wouldn’t you feel the same if you didn’t know me?”
Piper could see Amy badly wanting to deny that, but she slowly and reluctantly nodded. “I’d probably think why take a chance? If I didn’t know you like I do, that is.”
“And how many people do?” Piper asked. “Who sees how carefully you and I work back there to follow all safety precautions? The problem is, once the jars are on the shelves or bought, they’re out of our hands.”
“But you offer so much more than your homemade pickles and preserves. There’s the spice
s you order from around the world, and—”
“—and my pickling equipment—the jars and lids, canners, tongs, crocks. Totally safe, right? But don’t you see? My shop’s reputation has been tainted. Everything in it has become suspect.”
“I heard,” Gil Williams said, walking in from his shop next door and looking somber. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Piper said with a weak smile. “I’d definitely like to know whose fault it is.”
“The person who murdered Dirk Unger doesn’t want you to get any closer to finding them out.”
“I didn’t feel close at all,” Piper protested.
“Someone,” Gil said, “apparently feared that you were. Your only way to fix this is to unmask them. This town needs to know who has been spreading poison around. Once it does, it can go back to normal life, and that includes patronizing your shop and buying your wares.”
“You make it sound so simple!” Amy said, appearing on the verge of tears.
Piper rubbed Amy’s arm soothingly. “It isn’t, of course. But on the bright side, I now have much more time to work on the problem.”
“You mean . . .”
Piper nodded. “I might as well close up shop. Don’t you agree?” she asked, looking at Gil. To her surprise, he shook his head.
“Don’t do it. It would be taken as an admission of guilt. You had nothing to do with Joan Tilley’s poisoning. Another person somehow tampered with your wares. Show the town that you’re mad as hell and won’t put up with such atrocities.”
“Right!” Amy cried, swallowing her tears and pumping a fist. “Show them!”
Piper looked from one to the other. “You’re absolutely right, Gil. No way should I act as though I’m ashamed and hiding. I am mad. And if anyone happens to wander by, I’ll tell them.”
“They will, come by, that is. Little by little. Wait and see.”
Piper hoped Gil was right, but either way she’d made her decision. She was going to fight back against the person guilty of these awful poisonings. “Actually, I don’t think I want to sit and hope someone drops by. Amy, I think you can manage to hold down the super quiet fort. I’m going to go out to get my message across. And I’ll start by visiting Mrs. Tilley.”
“Good idea,” Gil said.
“Yes!” Amy said. “And give her my best. She’s such a sweet lady.”
“Give her mine, too,” Gil said, and Piper promised, not adding that she hoped she wouldn’t be barred from approaching Mrs. Tilley. Piper grabbed her jacket and slipped her hands through the sleeves with crossed fingers—not the strongest way, she realized, to start off on a mission.
. . .
Piper walked down the hallway of the Bellingham Regional Hospital, having learned Mrs. Tilley’s room number from the volunteer at the front desk. The good news was Mrs. Tilley was not in intensive care. The bad news, at least for Piper, was that many of the woman’s friends had gathered in support, and a large group of them stood directly ahead.
As she drew nearer, Piper saw heads turn and whispers shared. This would be a trial by fire, and she was determined to project the innocence that was rightly hers of having had any part in Mrs. Tilley’s situation. A few of the well-wishers began to back away, their gazes aimed everywhere but at Piper, though she caught one or two glances before they flicked away. She was beginning to grow desperate when Emma Leahy suddenly broke through the ranks.
“Piper! I’m glad you could come. Joan will be so happy to see you.” She enveloped Piper in a hug, and Piper saw, over Emma’s shoulder, some of the uncertainty of the others begin to fade.
“How is she?” Piper asked.
Emma’s face was serious. “Still pretty bad but, I think, improving. She’s gone through a lot.”
“I can imagine. I was horrified that something like this could happen to her. And nearly as horrified to learn where the poison came from.”
“We all were. Whoever did this is truly evil, and I’m so sorry that person involved you.”
At that, Lorena Hicks stepped forward. “I’m sorry, too, Piper,” she said, taking Piper’s hand. “We know you had nothing whatsoever to do with it.”
Piper saw a few heads nodding and heard murmurs of agreement, though they were subdued. It was encouraging for her, personally, though she knew it still meant her shop’s wares remained untrustworthy.
“Come say hello to Joan,” Emma said, drawing her toward the door. “We’ve been taking turns, not wanting to tax her.”
Piper followed Emma into the room, her heart sinking at sight of the once-lively woman appearing to barely cling to life, her breaths shallow and her skin nearly transparent. Mrs. Tilley’s eyelids lifted halfway and she smiled weakly. “Piper.” One palm rolled upward and Piper laid her own in it, pained at the total lack of strength she felt. “So . . . good,” Mrs. Tilley breathed out.
Piper covered the dry hand with her own second one, wanting to somehow pump warmth and energy into the older woman’s wasted body. “It’s good to see you,” she said. “We all want you to get over this and be back with us soon.”
Mrs. Tilley smiled. She drew a long breath. “Trying.”
“I know you are. Mrs. Tilley, I’m so sorry it was my brandied cherries that made you this sick. I don’t know who put something in them, but I’m going to try my best to find out.”
Mrs. Tilley made a slight nod, more with her eyelids than her head. “Not . . . your fault,” she said. She drew another breath. “Find . . . who.”
“We will, Joan,” Emma said. “We’ll find who did this. Won’t we, Piper?”
Piper’s impulse was to admit how difficult that might be. But she saw Joan Tilley’s pale blue eyes brighten at Emma’s promise. How could she not keep that spark alive?
“Yes, we will,” she agreed. “The person who did this to you is going to pay. I promise to do my best to see that nothing like this will happen again.”
At that, Mrs. Tilley’s eyes slowly closed, but her lips had curled into a smile. Piper gently squeezed the woman’s hand, then tucked it under the sheet. She followed Emma out of the room, thinking that she’d made a promise and had meant it. She’d better get busy at keeping it.
22
The following day was just as deadly quiet at Piper’s Picklings as the previous one, and Amy’s cell phone ring was the only bright interruption to the gloom. Amy chatted a few minutes, her comments making it clear that it was her long-time friend, Megan, on the other end. When the call ended, Amy turned to Piper.
“Megan said a strange woman stopped her a couple of days ago, asking where Franklin Street was. And by strange, Megan didn’t mean that she didn’t know her. She meant strange.”
“I think I know who she means,” Piper said. “Gwen Smyth. She stopped in here, too, wanting to know where the Porters’ house was. I thought I gave her good directions but she might not have been, um, able to absorb them very well.”
“Why was she going to the Porters’? Who is she?”
“She said she’s Lydia Porter’s sister.”
“What? Megan described her as looking like a homeless person.”
“She might well be.” Piper retied her apron strings, which had loosened. “Or she might just be someone with a very, um, casual lifestyle. Either way, she seemed to expect Lydia and Jeremy to take her in.”
“Well, that should be interesting.”
Piper thought so, too, but she had other things to think of besides Porter relatives. She had told Amy about the lukewarm reception she got from Mrs. Tilley’s friends at the hospital. She was grateful to Emma Leahy for standing up for her, and she knew Aunt Judy would do the same. But Piper also knew it would mainly be up to her to salvage what she could of her shop’s reputation.
Piper eyed the rows of jars on her shelves surrounding the large gap left by the brandied cherries Sheriff Carlyle had carried off. “I may
have to destroy all my handmade pickles and preserves to convince my customers it’s safe to shop here again.”
“Don’t!” Amy cried. “I checked all the vacuum seals on the lids. Every lid is absolutely tight. Absolutely nothing out here or in the back room has been tampered with.”
“Good to know, and thank you for checking. We can be just as sure that the spices I bought from dealers are sealed and safe. But will my customers be as certain? I’m afraid nothing other than a total replacement of my inventory will convince people who worry about poisoning.”
“But . . . can you afford to do that?” Amy asked. “I mean, that must be thousands of dollars’ worth of merchandise.”
Piper knew she couldn’t, really. But she said, “Let’s worry about that later. I promised Mrs. Tilley I’d find the person who caused all this, so I’m going to concentrate on that first.”
When it came time for Amy to leave for her restaurant job, she did so reluctantly, clearly more concerned about Piper and her predicament. Piper appreciated the sentiment but shooed her assistant off, doing her best to appear upbeat. She managed that until Amy was out of sight but quickly felt the realities of her situation come crushing back down. That was not good.
She’d agreed with Gil that keeping Piper’s Picklings open was the smarter thing to do. But sitting alone in the empty store, feeling unfairly shunned, was more difficult than she’d expected. For the first time in her life she didn’t want to put up any pickles or preserves. The thought that others would look at the jars with suspicion was just too defeating. But she had to keep busy or find herself sinking into self-pity.
Amy had already given Sheriff Carlyle a list of buyers of the brandied cherries, going back to December. Piper decided she might as well search the purchases for the weeks before that, time-wasting though it felt. She herself was convinced the bloodroot had been added to the one jar that Mrs. Tilley ended up with. But if the sheriff wanted the full list, she’d give it to him. The tedious, mind-numbing job might actually help free up her thoughts for identifying the person responsible for it.
Scene of the Brine Page 16
