License to Dill (11 page)

A
t seven forty-five, Piper's front doorbell rang, and she trotted down the steps from her apartment over the shop to answer it. She'd changed from her Cloverton lunch outfit to what she decided was more O'Hara's-suitable: dark jeans topped with a cream-colored sweater. She'd added a bright silk scarf at the last minute on the off chance that she might be underdressed. As she opened the door, Piper saw that while Gil still wore his usual dark flannel slacks, he'd exchanged his bookseller's brown, elbow-patched cardigan for a green pullover.

“How appropriate,” Piper said with a grin.

“I realize we're a long way from Saint Patrick's Day, but I don't get a chance to wear this very often. It was a gift from someone who thought I needed a bit more color in my life.”

“It suits you,” Piper said, wondering who Gil's “someone” was but not dreaming of pressing for more information. Though she knew very little about her shop neighbor's personal life, that simply seemed the proper course of things—like never having known what her elementary school teachers did on their days off. It just felt highly inappropriate to inquire.

“Ready for an evening of intense but subtle detective work?” Gil asked, holding out his arm.

“Quite ready,” Piper said as she slipped her own arm through his and stepped lightly out her door.

O
'Hara's was crowded, even more so than it had been after the soccer match. As they entered, Piper could see the band setting up on the dais at one end of the room. Gil found them a small table at the opposite end, explaining, “You won't want to be too close to those amplifiers, unless you happen to have brought earplugs.”

Piper, who'd attended her share of rock concerts, understood. The size of the room did not seem to justify the size of the amplifiers she saw, though in her experience it rarely did. She could only hope for Gil's sake that the crowd would soak up much of the sound.

A waitress came up to take their order. “Guinness, definitely,” Piper said.

Gil agreed. “Make that two, and perhaps one of your appetizer platters?” he added, shooting an inquiring look at Piper, who thought that was a fine idea.

“You got it,” the cheerful young woman said, taking off.

“Which one is Martin McDow?” Piper asked, looking toward the four men working busily at their equipment across the room, all dressed in jeans, black tees, and matching tweed caps.

“Hard to tell with most of their backs turned,” Gil said. He craned his neck, peering between crowded tables. “We can eliminate the one with the long hair, and the large fellow holding a guitar. Ah! There he is. Martin's just pulled his bodhran out of its case.”

Piper spotted him. McDow was testing his instrument with a small, bone-shaped beater, holding the round, hollow-backed drum up to his ear with his other hand. He was sandy haired and of medium build, with only a pair of round, wire-framed glasses hinting at his day job. In his current surroundings and getup, Piper thought he could have passed for a professional musician. Of course, the band hadn't yet begun to play.

Piper and Gil's order arrived just as one of the guitar players stepped up to the microphone and greeted the crowd. He introduced the band and its members and named their first song—something about a lass named Bridget—and after a count of “one-two-three-four” the group took off: two guitars, a whistle player, and Martin McDow, whose steady beats on the bodhran helped hold it all together. Many in the crowd were apparently regulars, and they began singing along during the chorus and clapping their hands in time to the music, something that the band's lead singer encouraged.

Piper quickly found her toes tapping and saw Gil's fingers bouncing on the table.

“They're not bad,” Piper said, having to lean close to Gil's ear in order to be heard. He agreed with a smile and a nod.

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.

A
fter 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.