License to Dill (18 page)

“Mr. Borkman,” Piper said, “I'm sorry to interrupt your work, which is beautiful, by the way.” Carvings of eagles with outstretched wings, fish, and stylized human figures were placed about the studio in various stages of completion.

Borkman's glare softened a tenth of a degree but remained fearsome. “I don't sell from the premises. You have to go through the galleries.” He shifted the weight of his chain saw as though ready to fire it up again, so Piper hurriedly said, “I wanted to ask you about the accident you witnessed.”

“What about it?” He'd lowered his saw but continued to look impatient.

“Josiah,” Uncle Frank said. “The details of what happened to that bike rider might be very important to Gerald Standley. We'd appreciate it if you could tell us exactly what you saw. “

Borkman appeared to consider that for several moments before setting his chain saw down on the dirt floor. He gestured to Piper and Uncle Frank to follow him out a back exit, which they did, passing a makeshift kitchen and small bathroom on the way. Since Piper hadn't seen a house nearby, those were clearly necessities for whatever amount of time Borkman spent working in the barn.

Outside they found a set of benches that almost certainly had been carved by Borkman. Piper hesitated to sit on what seemed more art than utility, but the bench Borkman dropped his heavy frame onto withstood the jarring, so Piper took a seat on the other, alongside Uncle Frank.

“I already told Sheriff Carlyle what I saw,” Borkman said. “But he didn't mention anything about Standley. Where do you want me to start?”

Piper noticed that Borkman didn't ask how his tale might help Gerald Standley. Apparently the statement coming from Uncle Frank was enough for him, making her doubly glad her uncle was with her.

“How about when you first saw the dark car,” Piper said.

Borkman stroked his long beard, loosening a few stray wood chips, which dropped to his lap. “I'd just made a right turn onto 432 on my way home. I worked late, trying to get that damned bear to stop looking like my dog Roscoe and more like a bear. There wasn't much traffic—never is that time of night. This was around eleven or so. What the heck was that biker doing out so late, anyway?”

“Exercising,” Piper said, which brought grunts from both Borkman and her uncle, two men who obviously got all the exercise they needed from their work and had no desire to go looking for it anywhere else.

“Anyway,” Borkman said, “I heard this knock coming from my engine and pulled over to check it out. Cut my motor and headlights, so I probably was close to invisible out there on the dark road. I was reaching for the flashlight in my glove compartment when I saw this wobbly light coming from the other way. I remember staring at it, trying to figure out what I was seeing, when a car came up behind him, picking the biker up in its headlights. That's when I figured out the bouncing light was the bike's headlamp.

“Was the biker on the road?” Uncle Frank asked.

“Shoulder. And it's pretty wide on both sides, as you know, Frank. Wide enough for my Jeep with room to spare. There's no reason that biker should have been in any trouble.” Borkman's thick eyebrows pulled together into an angry, V-shaped line.

“Why was he, then?” Piper asked.

“Because the car behind went right for him. I caught it all. The fellow on the bike looked back and saw it coming. All he could do was try to swerve out of the way. But he must have turned too fast, or maybe his wheel hit something, I don't know. The next thing I saw was him flying through the air.” Borkman carved a dramatic swoop with one hand that ended with a smack against the other. Piper winced as she pictured Frederico's head doing the same with a rock. “The driver surely saw it, too, but he never stopped. Floored it instead. Maybe he spotted me by then, who knows? He was out of there before I could do or see another thing.”

“You didn't catch a license number or see who was driving?” Piper asked.

“Nope. Most I saw was bright headlights and the dark shape of some kind of midsize car.” Borkman scratched at his chin. “Now that I think of it, though, I did
hear
something.”

Borkman, at that point, started coughing and worked at clearing his throat while Piper waited on the edge of her seat. When he could speak again, Borkman said, “I heard this whining sound coming from the car when he straightened his wheels. Worn wheel bearings, I'd say.”

Uncle Frank nodded, agreeing.

“That's good!” Piper said. “If Gerald Standley's Camry has good wheel bearings, that could eliminate him.”

“Worn bearings aren't that rare,” Uncle Frank warned.

“He's right,” Josiah Borkman said. “Let's hope Gerald's kept up his car maintenance. I'd hate to be the one got him deeper in hot water. He's a good man. Showed up to clear the snow out of my driveway many a time with one of his tractors, among other things. Never would take anything for it. I never believed any of the stuff flying around about him.”

“He'd be glad to know that, if you haven't already told him,” Piper said. “Mr. Borkman, you've referred to the driver of the car as ‘he.' Are you certain it was a he?”

Borkman scowled, his thick eyebrows bouncing as he considered that. He looked up after a moment and shook his head. “No, I'm not. I suppose I just assumed. For all I saw—or didn't see—the driver of that car could just as well have been a woman.”

P
iper and Uncle Frank were silent as they walked back to her car, along the way passing Josiah Borkman's stacked logs waiting for their inner beauty to be released. It wasn't until Piper had driven halfway out the long driveway that Uncle Frank voiced what was in Piper's thoughts. “A woman?”

“If it was a woman, there's Raffaele Conti's wife, Francesca.”

“Does she have a car?”

“Raffaele Conti did. A rental. She may have held on to it.”

“But why go after the boy?”

“Why would anyone? That's what we don't know. If Frederico would only come out of his coma and talk to us . . .” Piper didn't finish, thinking of Frederico's perilous condition. Being able to point a finger at his attacker was important. But the first order of business for Frederico was to survive.

She drove the rest of the way lost in thought until they reached the farmhouse. Jack instantly raced down from a sunny spot on the porch, his black-and-white fur flying as he barked happily.

“I'll see if I can get over to Standley's place,” Uncle Frank said as he climbed out, reaching down to pat Jack, whose excited yips and bounces would have made one think Uncle Frank had been away for months instead of an hour. “Maybe I can find out if the wheel bearings on Gerald's Camry whine or not without asking straight-out. Not that I think it was his car, of course.”

“Of course.” Piper lowered her window to reach out to Jack, who had scurried over to the driver's side, and was rewarded with a sloppy tongue wash. “Keep me updated,” she said, retrieving her hand and putting her car into reverse.

Uncle Frank whistled Jack away and waved Piper off. The somber look on his usually cheery face made Piper wish, as she had more than once, that Raffaele Conti had never chosen to come to Cloverdale as an exchange student all those years ago, thus setting into motion events whose negative effects seemed wide and unending.

A
s her latest customer left the pickling shop, Amy turned to Piper. “I didn't get a chance to say I'm so sorry. I mean for blurting everything out about that creepy text message to my father. I know you didn't want to bring him into it.”

“It's not a problem. Really.” Piper had washed her hands and was slipping a green apron over her head, ready to get back to work.

“It's just, I was worried for you, and Daddy has this way of practically reading my mind. It's scary how he does it. He gives me that laser-look and everything comes spilling out.”

“Maybe he'll be able to track the sender down,” Piper said, not really believing it but wanting to make Amy feel better.

“Oh, I hope so. I hope it was just a prank. Maybe Daddy will find that others got the same stupid message.”

“Maybe. How did it go with Erin?” Piper asked, thinking of Amy's goal the day before of finding out how much Erin knew about Ben's new assistant.

Amy replaced a colander that her customer had been considering and turned toward Piper with a frown. “It was kind of odd,” she said. “Erin did know about Leila, but she didn't seem at all bothered by her.”

“Had she met Leila?”

Amy's eyes widened. “Maybe not! At least she didn't actually say so. Maybe Ben just mentioned his new employee over the phone.”

“Where was Erin heading when you walked off with her on your way to A La Carte?”

Amy gulped. “Ben's office.”

Well, that might have been interesting, Piper thought, knowing Erin couldn't fail to notice how much Ben's new employee resembled Amy. Piper suspected Erin had been aware of Ben's long-standing crush on Amy even if Amy wasn't. But Amy's eventual attachment to Nate put an end to it. Or seemed to.

If Erin thought that lingering feelings for Amy had led Ben to hire an Amy look-alike, how would she react? Calmly, Piper supposed, as was Erin's nature, at least outwardly. Whatever distress she might actually be feeling over the situation, Erin would tend to keep it to herself. Until a good friend could draw it out.

“Maybe you should give her a call,” Piper said. “Is she working today at Dr. Dickerson's office?”

“I'm not sure. Her schedule changes a lot. Let me try her cell.” Amy pulled up Erin's number on her own cell. In a moment, with the phone pressed to her ear, she shook her head. “Voice mail.” She left a message for Erin to call her back.

Amy glanced at the clock. “I guess I'd better get going to A La Carte. Maybe Erin will get back to me on the way.” She pocketed her phone and started gathering up her things.

“I hope so,” Piper said. “Let me know how she is if you can.”

Amy nodded, concern for her friend clouding her green eyes.

O
n her own at the shop and with no sign of approaching customers, Piper decided to make a call of her own to Don Tucker, hoping to catch him at the Cloverton. She was pleased when his familiar voice answered at the hotel's front desk.

“Mr. Tucker, it's Piper Lamb. Do you have a minute?”

“Absolutely, Piper. What can I do for you?”

“Can you tell me if Francesca Conti kept her husband's rental car?”

“Oh, that was picked up days ago. I suppose she had no need for it, since Mr. Tortorelli had his and drives her anywhere she wants.”

“Do you know what kind of car Tortorelli has?”

“I sure do. Our valet service brought his car out front for them dozens of times. A blue Acura.”

“Light or dark blue?”

“Dark.”

“I don't suppose,” Piper asked, “you've happened to be outside and nearby as they drove off in it, have you?”

“Afraid not. Why?”

Piper explained about the whine Josiah Borkman heard coming from the car that had caused Frederico's accident.

“And you think the coach and Mrs. Conti might have been driving that car?”

“It's a possibility. Do you know if they were out last night?”

There was a pause as Tucker apparently thought back. “They didn't go out to dinner. They ordered room service around seven. But I got off at nine and can't say if they left the hotel after that or not.” Another long pause. “Tortorelli did leave around eight thirty this morning alone. He didn't tell me where he was going, of course, but he still hasn't returned. I know, because Francesca has been in and out of here, looking like she's at loose ends. I wonder if he may have driven somewhere out of town to get his car worked on? Or maybe to trade it in for another rental?”

“Uh-oh. I'd better share that with Sheriff Carlyle,” Piper said. “If he hasn't already, the sheriff should check on that car before anything's done to it.” She was about to end the call, when she remembered something. “That blue Acura,” she said. “Did it have tinted windows?”

There was another pause, and Piper waited, assuming that Don Tucker was scouring his memory. She was picturing the dark car with tinted windows that had followed Miranda and her after they left the Mariachi.

“You know,” Tucker said, “I think it did. Why? Did Josiah say the hit-and-run had tinted windows?”

“No, he didn't, it was just something I . . . well, never mind. The bad wheel bearings are what's important right now. Thank you, Mr. Tucker. You've been very helpful.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said cheerfully. “By the way, how is the young Italian doing?”

“Last I heard he was still in a coma. I intend to run over there tonight and can let you know more tomorrow.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

Piper hung up and connected to the sheriff's office, whose number was stored in her own memory as well as her phone's, having had too many occasions to call it since settling in Cloverdale. The sheriff was out, but Piper left her message with a deputy, stressing that it should be passed on quickly.

As she hung up, she found herself hoping that Tortorelli's car would be found to be the hit-and-run vehicle. Upsetting as it would be for his team, it would be a huge relief for the town to find that the murderer was not one of their own. Tortorelli certainly had a motive for wanting to kill Raffaele Conti. But why would he want to kill Frederico? If only Frederico would recover enough to tell them.

Piper was startled out of her thoughts when her shop bell suddenly rang and two women walked in. One greeted Piper familiarly, which threw Piper for a loss for a moment. Then she mentally placed a Carlo's Pizzeria cap on the woman's frizzy blond hair and added a white apron to her stocky frame. “Hi, Crystal,” Piper said, grateful that the woman's name came back to her as well. “Not working today?”

“It's the in-between time right now,” Crystal said, then helpfully spelled out what she meant. “In between lunch and dinner. Business won't pick up until around four thirty, so we decided to check out some of the newer stores. My friend here, Vicky”—the slimmer, dark-haired woman with Crystal lifted her hand in a finger wave—“loves anything to do with food and cooking. So here we are!”

Piper welcomed Vicky and launched into a discussion of what Piper's Picklings offered and how that might fit with Vicky's interests. Quite well, it turned out, as Vicky had done some pickling and preserving in the past and was keen on getting back into it. So Piper helped her stock up on canning jars as well as choose a cookbook that specialized in fall fruits and vegetables.

Crystal browsed quietly during all that but brought up the hit-and-run as Piper was ringing up Vicky's purchases. “I heard that soccer player was out jogging in the middle of the night when it happened.”

“No,” Vicky corrected. “He was on his bike. Isn't that right?” She turned to Piper, who nodded.

“Around eleven
P.M.
,” Piper added.

“Still late to be out, don't you think?” Crystal said.

“It is,” Piper agreed, sliding a credit card slip toward Vicky for her signature. “All I can guess is that he was hoping for a traffic-free road in order to pedal away at top speed.”

“Yeah. Maybe so. Those soccer guys must be desperate for any exercise. What a shame, though. Probably a drunk driver, huh?”

Piper saw genuine sympathy in Crystal's face and was relieved not to hear blame laid on Gerald Standley. As Vicky signed her slip, Piper asked, “Carlo's serves beer. Did you see anyone overindulge last night and maybe leave close to eleven?”

Crystal shook her head. “We hardly ever see anyone get drunk at Carlo's. People come mainly for the food, and all that cheese and stuff probably keeps them sober. Besides, we close at ten on weekdays. So whoever it was didn't come from our place.”

Piper knew Crystal was thinking only of customers. But what about the owner? She was ready to ask what time Carl Ehlers had left, when Crystal added, “And I was out of there by ten after ten, thank goodness, and safe at home before this crazy drunk was out there on the road.”

Piper had handed Vicky her bags and the two women were halfway to the door when Crystal suddenly turned back. She pulled a printed sheet from her purse. “Here, maybe you can use this. I picked it up at Mindy's knitting shop.”