License to Dill (10 page)

I
t was time for Will to head to his bank meeting. Piper walked with him as far as the hotel lobby, where she lingered, hoping for a chance to talk to Don Tucker. She'd never met Tucker, but Aunt Judy had described him to her, and the man standing at the front desk—late sixties, gray haired, medium height, slim build—fit the bill.

“Don took the job at the Cloverton after he retired from the hospital over in Bellingham, where he worked in the pharmacy,” Aunt Judy had told Piper. “His wife had died, and their daughter had moved away. I think Don needed to get out of the house more than he needed the money. He was the chief pharmacist, so I'm sure he was pretty well-set, financially.

The couple who'd been checking out finally left, leaving Tucker alone, so Piper went over.

“Mr. Tucker?”

“Yes? Can I help you?” Tucker looked up from the papers he'd been examining with a smiling, well-lined face. His navy blue hotel blazer framed an impeccable white shirt and perfectly knotted striped tie.

Piper introduced herself and mentioned Emma Leahy. “She may already have talked to you about—”

“About Mrs. Conti?” When Piper nodded, he said, “Emma was here this morning. And Phil Laseter came a little later. I seem to have become a
source
.” He smiled when he said it, leading Piper to believe he didn't much mind, which was good news, since Piper hoped to pump him a bit more.

“I got the impression that his wife's arrival was a surprise to Conti,” Piper said. “Is that right?”

“All I can say is that Mr. Conti's room was booked in his name only, not for the two of them. Since she arrived two days after he did, though, that wasn't too unusual.”

“Would you say he was pleased to see her?”

“Well, from my vantage point, all appearances pointed to that,” Tucker said. “But then, you see, her arrival was a rather public situation.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward Piper.

“I happened to see them at a much quieter time. It was before the Saturday evening match. They walked in together, possibly from an early dinner together, and headed over to the elevator. The expressions on both faces were extremely stiff. They looked like they'd been arguing but had clammed up while others were around. When the elevator doors opened, she stalked in but he hesitated, as though he'd rather not have to join her, but he finally did. As the elevator doors closed, they were standing about as far apart as they could get.”

“Mmm. No love lost there, apparently.”

Tucker shook his head. “And she's such a beautiful woman. You asked if she'd surprised him by her arrival, and my guess would be she did. Before then, Conti was having a grand old time flirting with every woman in sight. A real Casanova, that man was. But his wife? She didn't strike me as the long-suffering type. I don't know how long they were married, but if he were still alive I doubt they would have stayed together much longer.”

The desk phone rang, and Tucker reached for it, leaving Piper to think about what he'd just implied—that the Contis' marriage was unlikely to last. Conti himself, of course, didn't last more than a few additional hours that day. Could that have had anything to do with his wife? Tucker said she wasn't the long-suffering type, and Piper, from their brief meeting, would agree. Was Francesca, though, also the impatient type, eager to end her marriage in a swifter manner than divorce?

With Tucker still occupied, Piper wandered over to the restaurant entrance. From there she could see Coach Tortorelli and Francesca Conti sitting at their table. Francesca pulled out a cigarette and was preparing to light it when a waitress scurried up, probably to inform her that she couldn't do that. Words were exchanged, and though Piper was too far away to catch them, the angry tone and gestures told her enough—that Francesca Conti did not like to be crossed.

Piper hurried back to the pickling shop, even though Amy had urged her to take her time. She thoroughly trusted Amy's ability to handle things, but as far as her little shop was concerned she still felt like a mom with a new baby: uneasy when she was away too long and certain that it was safest only in her own care. Besides, with the Conti situation still agitating the town, Piper hated to think of poor Amy having to deal with the influx of “news spreaders” that had been so active the day before.

She was relieved, therefore, to walk in and find things quiet, with only Nate keeping Amy company as she polished the glass front of a display case.

“Hi,” Piper greeted them. “Everything under control?”

Amy set down her spray bottle. “Fine! No problems. Although,” she admitted, “it did get a little busy at one point. But luckily Nate came by around then, and he gave me a hand.”

“I've spent so much time here that I know where most everything is,” Nate said, grinning.

Piper laughed. “Maybe we should make it official and I'll add you to the payroll.”

“Uh-uh. Pickling's not my thing. Music is.”

They chatted awhile about Nate's progress on the music demo he was working on, Amy looking proudly on until she suddenly glanced at the clock. “Time to get going,” she said. “A La Carte awaits.” She was pulling off her apron when the shop door opened, and two people walked in.

“Miranda!” Amy cried.

Piper didn't actually know the young man with Miranda, never having seen him close-up, but she wasn't at all surprised when Amy added, “Frederico. Good to see you!”

The handsome, dark-haired, athletic young man, now dressed in jeans and a tee instead of his Bianconeri uniform, smiled broadly at Amy. “Ciao, Amy!” He spotted Nate and greeted him as well.

“Frederico,” Miranda said, “this is Piper Lamb, who I was telling you about.”

“
Buongiorno
, Signorina Lamb.” He took her hand and pumped it enthusiastically.

“Just Piper, please,” Piper said, thinking she liked this very friendly soccer player with a decidedly open face, at least on first impressions. She reclaimed her hand after a moment or two. “I'm very glad to meet you, Frederico.”

“Miranda, we have to take off,” Amy called. “See you later!” She grabbed her purse and Nate's hand and headed for the door.

Miranda waved, then turned back to Piper. “I was telling Frederico how you've volunteered to help my dad out, and he was eager to meet you.”

Not exactly “volunteered,” Piper thought, though she wasn't regretting it—yet.

“Yes,” Frederico said. “I tell Miranda, this must be a
fantastica
woman who goes to such trouble for her friends.”

Indeed, Piper found her appreciation of the man increasing by the minute, though she insisted, “I'm not the only one who wants to help. And what I can actually accomplish might be very limited. I did, by the way, have a brief chat with Signora Conti and your coach, Signore Tortorelli, just a little while ago.”

“See?” Miranda said, turning to Frederico, as though to say,
Didn't I say she'd take care of everything?

“
Very
brief,” Piper emphasized. “But it told me a few things. What is your impression of Signora Conti, Frederico? Other than that she's beautiful, of course.”

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.

A
fter 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.

A
s 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.”