License to Dill (17 page)

“P
iper, your dilly beans are done. Turn off the timer!” Emma Leahy was in Piper's shop kitchen, waving her hands frantically.

“I can't. It won't turn off!”

“But the beans will disintegrate if you don't stop that ringing. All two hundred gallons of them! The sheriff will take away your license. You have to turn it off now! Hurry! Hurry!”

“I'm trying, I'm—” Piper sat up in her bed, blinked, realized where she was, and groggily reached for the cell phone that had been chiming away on her nightstand.

“Piper?”

Piper recognized the voice, despite the distress that distorted it. “Miranda, what's wrong? Where are you?”

“I'm at the hospital. Frederico was brought here. He's hurt real bad.” Miranda's voice choked. “Piper, someone tried to kill him.”

“H
ow's the boy doing?” Gil Williams had entered Piper's Picklings holding his mug of morning coffee. He looked grim.

Piper was sure her face didn't look much better after losing several hours of sleep from worry and phone calls. “Not so well. He's still unresponsive.”

“Was he not wearing a bike helmet?”

“He was. But from what I heard, it practically split from the impact against the rock. A witness said Frederico flew off his bike. He probably would have been killed if it weren't for the helmet.”

“Thank heavens at least for that.” Gil pulled out one of Piper's stools and sat down, taking a sip from his mug. “What was he doing out on the highway so late, anyway?”

“Exercising.” Piper took a seat on the stool beside the cash register on her side of the counter. She'd already had copious amounts of coffee and contented herself with a sip from a water bottle. “Miranda said Frederico's an avid bike rider. With the soccer team so inactive, he borrowed a bike to keep in shape and work off excess energy.”

“Was that the first time he did that?”

Piper knew what Gil was thinking. They both had wondered at one time how Frederico could have made it to Gerald Standley's farm if he'd been the one to shoot Raffaele Conti. Getting there by bicycle hadn't occurred to either of them, but they couldn't ignore the possibility now, though it wasn't something Piper particularly wanted to think about. Picturing the friendly and cheerful Italian soccer player struggling for life was more than enough to deal with for the moment.

“I don't know if Frederico's been on a bike around here before,” she answered. “But he might have misjudged our relatively quiet roads as perfectly safe. The car that was involved didn't actually hit Frederico but somehow caused him to run off the road. The driver didn't stop.”

Gil shook his head in disgust. “I suppose with no fender damage or paint scrapes there'll be no clue as to who it was.”

Piper nodded. “Other than that the car was dark colored, from what I've heard.”

“Probably covers three-quarters of the cars in the area.” Gil paused. “Gerald Standley—”

“I know,” Piper said, grimacing. “Gerald Standley has a dark gray Camry.”

“Not that I think it actually was Gerald,” Gil said. “But it's common knowledge he didn't like his daughter seeing the boy.”

“He'd have to be crazy, though, to do something that extreme simply to break them up,” Piper protested. “Gerald has more sense than that.”

“Agreed. But some people might think if Gerald murdered Raffaele Conti he was just as likely to murder a second person he didn't want in his life.”

“A big
if
in that reasoning. Hopefully the sheriff isn't thinking that way.”

“I'm sure Sheriff Carlyle is looking for solid evidence. It's unfortunate for him, though possibly better for Frederico, that the car never touched the bike.”

Piper exhaled deeply, still barely able to believe what had happened. “Who would have wanted to kill Frederico? What possible reason could there be?”

Gil drained his mug and stood. “That,” he said, scraping the stool back into place, “is what we'll have to find out.”

A customer walked into the shop, and Gil bid Piper a polite good morning and left to return to his shop. Piper managed a welcoming, though tired, smile for the woman and helped her find what she wanted and rang it up, grateful that her customer seemed unaware of the latest incident and therefore shared no thoughts on either Frederico or Gerald Standley. That, Piper knew, wouldn't last.

A
s the morning wore on, Piper fielded plenty of off-the-wall speculation on the hit-and-run from customers and others, so during a lull she was particularly pleased to see a familiar blue Equinox pull up outside Piper's Picklings.

“I've just come from the hospital,” Aunt Judy said as she made her way into the shop.

“How is Frederico?” Piper asked, though from the expression on her aunt's face she expected the answer would not be good.

“They're seeing encouraging signs, but he's still in very bad shape.” Aunt Judy sank onto a stool, looking wrung out. While always ready to jump in with aid and comfort to friends when needed, Aunt Judy's natural empathy sometimes took its toll.

“Broken bones?” Piper asked.

“His right shoulder and arm, which took part of the hit. His skull, thank goodness, remained intact, but the doctors don't know how much trauma his brain received. They say the next few hours will be critical.”

Piper grimaced. “How is Miranda doing?”

“She's coping. Denise is with her.”

“Not Gerald?”

“Not when I was there.” Aunt Judy gave Piper a worried look. “He may have been, earlier. I don't know.”

“I hope he was. It could be taken the wrong way if he wasn't.”

“I'm not sure Gerald thinks that way—I mean, caring how things look to others. If he feels what he's doing is right, that's all there is to it. He may simply have thought coming to the hospital wasn't necessary. But as I said, I don't know for sure if he came or not.” Aunt Judy looked around. “You wouldn't have a little coffee on hand, would you?”

“Oh, of course! I should have offered.” Piper hurried to the back room, followed more slowly by her aunt. “All I've been able to think of this morning is Frederico.” She picked up the half-filled carafe that was keeping warm on its burner and poured out a mugful.

“That's all any of us can think of,” Aunt Judy said. “But eventually it catches up with us.” She took the mug from Piper gratefully, stirred in a generous spoonful of sugar, and took a long swallow. She sank into a nearby chair with a sigh.

“Food?” Piper asked. “A sandwich? I can throw one together upstairs in a flash.”

Aunt Judy waved the offer away. “This is all I need. I couldn't bring myself to try that vending machine coffee at the hospital.”

“Gil was here earlier,” Piper said as her aunt savored Piper's brew and rested. “We discussed how Sheriff Carlyle would have a hard time tracking down the car and its driver, which would make rumors of it having been Gerald Standley fly. I've already heard the beginnings of that this morning, though I tried my best to quell them.”

“Gerald's been having a rough time since the murder,” Aunt Judy said, setting her mug down for the moment. “Denise confided that many of his regular orders have been canceled. They're still getting gawkers coming to the dill field, with some actually tramping through it to take pictures! But the worst thing is that too many people they thought were friends have been avoiding them. Denise used the word ‘shunned.'”

“That's terrible!”

Aunt Judy nodded. “And I'm afraid this latest incident will only escalate things.”

“I told the Standleys I would help,” Piper said, “but nothing I've done so far has made any difference.”

Aunt Judy shook her head. “At least they know some of us are on their side.”

Piper was silent for a bit. “What about the hit-and-run witness. I never got a name. Did you?”

Aunt Judy brightened. “Yes, I did. Miranda told me. The man who saw it was Josiah Borkman.”

“Josiah Borkman?” The name didn't ring any bells for Piper. “Do you know him?”

“I've met him. He's”—Aunt Judy paused—“an unusual man. A wood-carver. His place is a few miles from where Frederico was hit.” Reading the look on Piper's face she asked, “Were you thinking of going there?”

“I'd like to get a few more details from him.”

“Get Uncle Frank to go with you, why don't you? I'd offer, but I'm bushed. And Frank would be better, anyway. He'd know how to approach him.”

Piper was intrigued. “I'll give Uncle Frank a call. Maybe we can set a visit up for when Amy comes in.”

“J
osiah's studio is just up the road a piece. You'll see the dirt driveway,” Uncle Frank said from Piper's passenger seat. She had picked him up at the farm after Amy arrived to take over at the shop.

“Studio?” When Aunt Judy mentioned wood carving, Piper had pictured Borkman sitting on his front porch whittling a stick of wood with his pocketknife.

“Josiah has his work in galleries. Maybe not museums—yet. But I wouldn't be surprised if it happens someday.”

“Wow. Why haven't I heard of him?”

Uncle Frank hesitated, much as Aunt Judy had done. “Josiah keeps to himself.” When Piper glanced over, her uncle shrugged. “He's an artist.”

“There!” he suddenly said, pointing ahead. “That's the driveway on the right.”

“I see it.” Piper slowed and turned her hatchback onto the packed-dirt driveway, which led up a rise through dense, brightly colored trees. At the top of the rise she could see a barnlike structure in a clearing off to the left with several logs of varying thicknesses and lengths lined up beside it. “Is that it?” she asked, and when Uncle Frank grunted something affirmative-sounding, she drove toward it, picking up a buzzing sound as they drew near.

“What
is
that?” she asked as she parked a few feet from the barn and turned off her engine. The buzzing had grown quite loud and sounded close by.

“Chain saw,” Uncle Frank said as he unbuckled his seat belt and opened his door, letting in a few more decibels.

Piper climbed out her side, but before she could move forward Uncle Frank signaled her to wait. They stood, Piper picking up the sweet scent of freshly cut wood as she listened to the chain saw whine, which she realized by then was coming from inside the barn. When it stopped, Uncle Frank reached for the barn door and pulled it open, shouting, “Josiah!” He repeated it a second time, louder.

Piper saw the need for the shouts as the tall, burly man standing in the center of the barn and holding a chain saw turned, then reached up to move aside his thick ear protectors. A long white beard hung halfway down Borkman's red plaid flannel shirt, which was tucked into tan-suspendered canvas pants. The fierce scowl he threw in their direction, making him look like a highly irritated Santa Claus, clued Piper in that Josiah Borkman was unlikely to chuckle any
ho-ho-ho
s
to rosy-cheeked children. His ferocious glare, in fact, made Piper want to backtrack out of the barn, though she conquered the impulse and managed what she hoped was a friendly-looking smile.

“Josiah,” Uncle Frank said, stepping forward. “This is my niece, Piper Lamb. She'd like to talk to you.”

“What about?” Borkman barked, clearly not pleased to have company. The thick, upright piece of wood the carver had been working on, however, was impressive. It appeared to be in the process of becoming a standing bear, the animal's head and paws just beginning to emerge from the wood.
How did he do that?
Piper wondered, then recalled a sculptor's explanation she'd once heard:
We just cut away everything that shouldn't be there
, which might make sense to sculptors but to few others.