License to Dill (14 page)

“What?” Piper urged. “What did she say?”

“Um,” Miranda said, pausing to gulp, “she just said she'd been waiting a long time to be rid of Raffaele.”

Piper suppressed a yelp but couldn't stop her eyes from darting toward the couple. Unfortunately, Tortorelli glanced her way at the same time, and he was scowling furiously. Piper quickly raised a napkin to her lips and turned away. Had she been too late? Was Tortorelli scowling because he'd recognized Piper? Or was he angry over what Francesca had said?

“He just told her to be quiet,” Miranda reported.

Piper wished she could see Francesca's reaction, but she didn't dare look.

“He said she needed to be more careful,” Miranda said, her voice fairly squeaking by then.

Francesca's dismissive laugh carried easily to their ears. Piper heard the word
“stupido.”
“Is she calling him stupid?”

Miranda's eyes blinked furiously as she processed what she'd just heard. “Not him,” she said at last. Miranda looked squarely at Piper. “Francesca called Sheriff Carlyle stupid.”

T
ortorelli signaled for the check, and Piper leaned over to Miranda. “Let's go.”

Miranda nodded and put down her napkin, whispering, “What about the bill?”

“We'll catch Caitlyn on our way out.” Piper didn't know if Tortorelli had recognized her or not, but if he had and wondered why Piper had turned up at this out-of-the-way restaurant and at the very next table, she didn't want to be around for him to inquire.

Piper and Miranda slipped away from their table as casually as possible and headed toward the front of the restaurant, grateful for the clutch of late arrivals who passed by and quickly blocked Tortorelli's line of vision. Piper hailed Caitlyn with a silent wave and pulled a few bills from her purse. That taken care of, she turned toward the exit, when a voice nearby suddenly cried, “Piper!”

Piper froze.

“Piper, what are you doing here?” It was Ben Schaeffer, Erin's boyfriend and Sheriff Carlyle's intrepid volunteer auxiliary policeman. Piper wasn't sure which of them was the more surprised, particularly as Erin wasn't the pretty young woman who was sitting beside him. Instead, she was a stranger, who seemed to be about Erin's age but with red hair instead of brown.

Ben stood, effectively halting Piper's plan to hurry out the door, and began introducing her to his table companion. As he did, Miranda whispered in her ear, “They're coming this way!”

Piper turned her back toward the path Tortorelli and Francesca would take, while still managing to face Ben.

“. . . Leila will be starting work at my office tomorrow,” Ben was saying as Leila smiled broadly at Piper through pink-glossed lips. “My insurance business has picked up lately. I realized I needed help.”

Piper caught a whiff of spicy perfume, and she tugged at her beret as she ducked her head. Miranda sank onto an empty chair at Ben's table and covered her face with her hands. Muttered words in Italian could be heard as the couple passed by, and—to Piper's relief—continued on. She took a deep breath and smiled at Leila.

“So, are you new to Cloverdale?” she asked.

“I am! I just moved there from Pennsylvania. I can't believe my luck in finding such a great job right away.” She beamed at Ben.

“Leila's still settling in,” Ben said. “I thought a dinner out . . . you know . . . to welcome her to the office and all . . .”

“I just love Mexican food!” Leila said, jumping in.

So of course, Piper thought dryly, taking his new employee to a restaurant out of town, where they wouldn't run into Ben's girlfriend, made perfect sense. In his defense, Ben
had
hailed Piper and, despite his verbal stumbling, didn't seem to find the situation embarrassing.

“Well, Leila,” Piper said. “I hope you enjoy Cloverdale and your new job.”

As they headed to the door, Miranda muttered, “Isn't Ben seeing Erin?”

“He is. And as far as I can tell this seems to be strictly him being a good boss. That's new to him, you know, being a boss. He's learning the ropes.”

“Hmmph.”

They headed for Miranda's car, Piper musing that it was interesting that Leila, with her red hair, had a strong resemblance to Amy, who had once been a major infatuation of Ben's. Was that only a coincidence? Piper certainly hoped so, for Erin's sake.

As they buckled into Miranda's car, Miranda asked, “Well, I think Francesca Conti has incriminated herself, don't you?”

Piper shook her head. “It sounded that way at first, but she hasn't actually gone that far.”

“But she said she was glad she got rid of her husband!”

“What you translated to me was that she'd been waiting a long time to be rid of him, right? It's not quite the same thing.”

“But it
could
be.”

“Agreed. I think they both came off as suspicious, particularly with their obviously amorous relationship. But I don't think we have enough to take to the sheriff yet, who, despite what Francesca thinks, is very intelligent.”

Miranda frowned. “That remark alone tells me she's guilty. She thinks she's getting away with something.”

“Maybe she is. But is it murder, or is it simply Raffaele Conti's money, which she now gets free and clear without the trouble of a divorce?”

As Miranda mulled that over, Piper's mind ran down the list of others who might have wanted Conti dead. That included Frederico, unfortunately, which Miranda would not be pleased to hear. The fact remained that Frederico, by his own admission, had a good reason to want Conti dead. Conti had tricked him into signing a contract that tied him to Bianconeri much longer than he'd realized and kept him from accepting offers from much better teams. For a young man at the peak of his athletic ability, that must have been extremely frustrating. Piper didn't know if Conti's death changed Frederico's contract or not. Maybe with Conti out of the picture there were higher hopes of a negotiation? Or maybe his motive would simply be anger over Conti's deviousness?

It was hard to imagine anything murderous in the likable soccer player Piper had met and who Miranda clearly had feelings for. But neither of them knew him well. Frederico had motive, and if he'd been able to slip out of his hotel room unnoticed he also had opportunity. But what about the weapon? There was no way Frederico would have been able to bring a gun with him when the team flew into the country. Buying a gun once he'd arrived would be just as difficult. Yet Conti had been shot.

“Miranda,” Piper said, having had a sudden disturbing thought she hoped the girl would be able to banish. “Frederico never visited your folks' farm, did he?”

“The farm?” Miranda glanced over at Piper, then looked quickly back at the road. “Why do you ask?”

That hint of evasiveness gave Piper a sinking feeling but she continued on. “I just wondered. I thought I remembered Frederico saying something about the beautiful farm . . .” He hadn't, but hopefully Miranda wouldn't catch that. “But I know your dad wasn't too happy about your seeing each other.”

“That's putting it mildly,” Miranda said. “Dad raised the roof when he first heard I was spending time with Frederico. But this was when he was simmering over Raffaele Conti showing up with the team. Who knew there was some kind of history between them?”

Miranda glanced into her rearview mirror. “That's weird.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. I thought that car behind us wanted to pass, the way it came up so fast. But now it's just keeping pace.”

Piper turned to look back but saw only bright headlights. “It doesn't look like a police car. You're not over the speed limit, are you?'

Miranda glanced at her speedometer. “Uh-uh. Well, anyway, there was no way to convince Dad that Frederico was not a bad person just because he was associated with Dad's old nemesis, and not by choice, I'll remind you! But Frederico really wanted to see the farm. He grew up on one, did you know that?”

Piper shook her head, not pointing out that there wasn't much she did know about Frederico.

“His folks have one in Tuscany, but not for growing crops. They raise sheep for cheese. Pecorino cheese. It's a pretty famous type made from ewe's milk. Have you ever had any?”

Piper admitted she had but didn't want to get sidetracked onto a discussion of Italian cheeses. “So you took Frederico to see your farm?”

Miranda nodded. “When Dad was out and Frederico had a couple of free hours from the team. Mom said it was okay. She didn't much like keeping it from Dad, but she wanted to meet Frederico.”

“I see. What did Frederico think of the farm?”

“Oh, he thought it was great! He loved the dill field, of course. And he was very impressed with Dad's barn.”

“He was? Why?”

“It's huge compared to what they have in Tuscany. Dad did a lot of work on it himself, too, and that impressed Frederico. I think the two of them would really get along if Dad would only give Freddy half a chance.”

“I guess Frederico checked out the barn pretty thoroughly, huh? If he was so impressed with it, I mean.”

“He really did! He climbed up to the loft and examined just about every inch. It's pretty dusty up there, though, and when he came down he was sneezing and coughing.”

“I suppose you got him something to drink.”

“Right. I ran into the house to get a couple of glasses of Mom's lemonade.”

“Did Freddy come with you?”

“Hmm?” Miranda's attention had shifted to negotiating a sharp curve. When she'd done so, she gave the answer that Piper half expected but was hoping not to hear. “No, Freddy stayed in the barn.”

Though Piper made no further comment, she groaned inwardly. Gerald Standley's missing gun had been stored somewhere in the barn. It was conceivable that Frederico had stumbled on it and contrived a coughing fit in order to secretly move it elsewhere. Possibly to a backpack left in Miranda's car?

Miranda brought the discussion back to Francesca and Tortorelli, rehashing all she'd overheard them say at the restaurant. Piper listened with half an ear, worrying over what she'd just learned. What Miranda had stated about the visit was, of course, fact. It was the rest that was simply conjecture at this point. So what was Piper going to do with it?

“Someone else from Cloverdale must have been at the Mariachi tonight,” Miranda said. “I mean, someone besides us and Ben Schaeffer.”

“Hmm?”

“That car behind us.” Miranda was looking in her rearview mirror. “It's the same one I noticed from way back. I wonder who it is.”

Piper looked back, and, as Miranda pulled into town, where streetlights shed more light, she could see a bit more of the car, though only that it was dark colored and a late-model sedan.

Piper looked again, but the dark car had dropped back. When Miranda drove through a stoplight that was turning yellow, Piper saw the car behind them slow, then stop as the light turned red. “Guess we'll never know.”

As they drew close to the pickling shop, she thanked Miranda for acting as translator as well as providing the transportation. When Piper tried to chip in for the gas, though, Miranda wouldn't hear of it. “You're doing all this on behalf of my dad, which I really, really appreciate.”

Would Miranda appreciate it if Piper ended up getting Frederico charged for the murder? She climbed out when Miranda pulled to a stop in front of the shop, holding those thoughts to herself and keeping her tone hopeful regarding Gerald Standley.

Piper had waved good-bye and was unlocking the street door to her apartment when she noticed movement farther down in the darkened street. About half a block away, a dark car moved forward slowly. Piper paused, watching as it gradually passed by. When it drove under the streetlight, Piper could see it was a black sedan, but exactly what make or model she couldn't say. Nor could Piper see who was driving or if there were any passengers—since all the windows were tinted.

P
iper struggled with sleep that night as events of the previous evening looped through her brain. Visions of Francesca and Tortorelli, highly pleased with Raffaele Conti's demise as well as each other, mixed with images of Frederico discovering Gerald Standley's gun in its long-forgotten hiding place. That last came from Piper's imagination only, but during dead-of-the-night darkness, conjecture became disturbingly real and only increased her wakefulness as she worked to reason it away.

By the time she opened up shop the next morning, Piper felt in desperate need of refreshment, both physically and mentally. Fortunately, that existed in her workroom in the form of a pot of strong coffee and a bushel of green tomatoes. Uncle Frank had loaded the tomatoes into her hatchback when she'd collected her old pair of glasses from Aunt Judy. Green tomato relish was the plan, to add to the jars she'd put up a few days ago, and after a bracing mug of coffee she got started on it.

Chopping at tomatoes, sweet peppers, and onions worked its magic, and by the time Piper loaded batches into her food processor she was relaxed and humming. The tune she hummed to the rhythm of the processor's pulsing—“I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General”
—
reminded her of the time Will had caught her in midsong on his very first visit to the pickling shop, an embarrassment that had moved Piper to attach a warning bell to her shop door.

At that moment, something did jingle, but it wasn't the doorbell. Piper stopped working and picked up her phone.

“Piper's Picklings!”

“Good morning,” Will said, and Piper burst into a laugh.

“Do you have ESP? I was just thinking of you!”

“That's good,” Will said. “If they were positive thoughts, that is.”

“Nothing but. How's the loan application coming?”

“It's a bear. That's what's kept me holed up and incommunicado the last two days. I'm sorry about that.”

“Oh, that's okay. I managed to keep myself busy. Had a lovely dinner with a friend last night in Bellingham, for one thing,” she said, teasing.

“Oh?”

Piper heard the concern and relented. “The friend was Miranda Standley. We were working undercover, eavesdropping on Francesca Conti and Coach Tortorelli as they dined at the Mariachi.”

“Ah!” Will said, the uneasiness gone for a moment before quickly resurfacing. “Wasn't that risky?”

“Not at all,” Piper said, choosing not to mention Tortorelli's angry glare in her direction when he may or may not have recognized her, or the car with its tinted windows that may or may not have been following them. She did share Francesca's suspicious comments as well as news of the couple's obviously passionate relationship.

“Sounds like they both had a reason to bump Conti off.”

“It does, but so did a few other people.” Piper told Will about her theory that Frederico could have found Gerald Standley's gun.

“That's certainly possible. Proving it is another thing.”

“I know. If only they would find the murder weapon,
wherever
it originated from, ideally with the murderer's fingerprints on it.”

“Wishful thinking,” Will said. “My guess is it's sitting at the bottom of some lake. Have you thought about how Frederico would have made it to the dill field to shoot Conti, assuming he did? He doesn't have access to a car, does he?”

“I did think about that, during my mostly sleepless night last night. The best I came up with is that perhaps he was with Conti when Conti's tire went flat.”

“Why would he be with him? Do you know where Conti had been that night?”

“I don't. And I don't know if the sheriff knows. Maybe I can find out.” Piper's first thought was to check with Erin, who had heard the helpful information about Francesca at the doctor's office and who sometimes picked up police-related things from Ben, unofficial auxiliary police person though he was. That, however, reminded her of running into Ben with his new office assistant, Leila. Pretty, Amy-like Leila. Would Leila affect Erin and Ben's relationship? She'd already taken up an evening that Ben might otherwise have spent with Erin.

Piper's shop door jingled. “Gotta go,” she told Will. “I have a customer.”

“Okay. I'll check with you later.”

Piper headed out to the front of her shop, expecting to come upon one of her usual pickling ladies. Instead, a gray-haired, sixty-something man stood there, glancing around with interest. Dressed in denims and a windbreaker instead of the Cloverton navy blue blazer, Piper at first didn't place him. But when he turned toward her and the lines of his face crinkled in a smile, recognition dawned. “Mr. Tucker! How nice to see you. A day off from the hotel?”

“Oh, I work all sorts of odd hours,” Tucker said. “I like the variety. Much better than spending every night alone in front of the television or every morning trekking to the diner for breakfast.”

Piper remembered that Tucker's retirement, on top of being recently widowed, had left him with time weighing heavily on his hands. She gave him credit for finding a solution and one that added to his income. “Don't tell me you're thinking of adding pickling and preserving to your activities.”

He chortled, shaking his head. “Lois handled all the kitchen chores, which is why I now get most of my meals out. Working at the hotel makes that mighty convenient. No, I stopped by because Emma mentioned you were working on Gerald Standley's behalf and that she'd hoped you would join up with our team. I wanted to add my vote to that. It could make a difference as far as Gerald Standley is concerned if we all put our heads together. We're pretty much a group of old fogies just muddling around, so it'd be a great addition to have a young person such as you to give a fresh take on things. We do have that new fellow, the lawyer, but so far he's the only one of us under sixty. I expect he'd be more than glad to have you in the group.”

Piper was sure he would but shook her head firmly. “I'm afraid I can't.” When Tucker pursed his lips, she added, “But that doesn't mean we can't still combine efforts.”

“We should do that,” Tucker agreed. “Even then I fear we have a big job ahead of us. Because of when and where it happened, there's no chance of witnesses unless you count a stray groundhog or two. And I'm guessing there wasn't much evidence found at the crime scene, either, things like footprints and such, or we'd be hearing about more people being pulled in for questioning, wouldn't you say?”

Piper nodded. “We haven't had rain in over two weeks, so the ground was surely too dry for footprints. Nothing helpful like the murder weapon or anything else has been found as far as I'm aware.”

“Exactly. So without witnesses or physical evidence, does someone get away with murder? That would be terrible.”

“It would. Plus it might leave Gerald Standley's reputation in lasting doubt if the case is never closed.”

“I'd hate to see that,” Tucker said, and Piper could see the sincerity in his face. She was glad that Miranda's father had another supporter and another person to brainstorm on his behalf.

“Mr. Tucker, I've been trying to get a better picture of the time leading up to the murder. I've never heard where Raffaele Conti had been that night, before he was driving back so late. Did you hear anything about that, perhaps while working at the hotel desk?”

“No, nothing, though I can guess.”

“Oh?'

“As I've said before, the man was a regular Casanova. I'll bet my last dollar he was with one of the women who were hanging around him—someone who never got over her teenage crush on him but who's married now and doesn't want to come forward and admit what she was doing.”

Piper could see that was a possibility. “Do you know their names?”

“I do. I knew them as school friends of my daughter, Robin, though if I'd known at the time how silly they were I might have had a word or two with her about them.”

“Would you write the names down for me?” she asked, grabbing a pen and paper. As Tucker worked on that, Piper thought that his theory of Conti's whereabouts that night was useful as far as Frederico was concerned, since it could let him off the hook. Frederico certainly wouldn't have gone along for the ride that night if Conti were heading to a tryst. If he had no other way of getting to the dill field then his alibi for the night was good. Did Frederico have another means of transportation, though?

When Tucker handed her his list of names, Piper asked, “Do you happen to know if there were cars available for the Bianconeri team members to use?”

“The players, you mean?” He shook his head. “The coach and Conti had their rental cars. That's all. The players traveled to the games on the bus. The hotel is in the center of town, so during their off time they could walk to just about anywhere they wanted.”

“But not get out to Gerald Standley's dill field, which is several miles out of town.”

“Right. That would be difficult. Unless one of them borrowed the coach's car.”

“Oh! Did that ever happen?”

“Seems to me it did.” Tucker rubbed his chin. “I remember seeing the coach handing his keys to one of the young fellows and asking him to run some kind of errand.”

“Which player?”

Tucker looked at Piper sadly. “They all look the same to me. Young, fit, most of them dark haired. Ah! But I do remember the coach telling this young man to just leave the keys in the usual place.”

“The usual place? Where would that be?”

Tucker shrugged. “Darned if I know. But I got the impression it was a well-known, fairly accessible place. Like, any of them could help themselves to his keys if they had a mind to.”

Well, that put Frederico firmly back in the suspect column, Piper thought regretfully. But as Don Tucker had pointed out, there was a scarcity of real evidence to either convict or clear anyone on that list so far.

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.