License to Dill (6 page)

“No, no, no,” Megan pleaded softly, and Piper held her breath as the black-and-white-uniformed player ran toward the ball. He kicked hard, the Cloverdale goalie dove toward it, and . . . missed!

“They scored!” Scott said.

“We lost,” Will muttered, and Piper heard the groans and felt the deflation of an entire stadium of spectators.

Raffaele Conti, however, was jubilant, as was his entire team. A glance toward the injured Bianconeri player showed even him to be celebrating, having miraculously risen from his stretcher to bounce on one foot. Was the leg he held up, his left one, the one he'd injured? Piper asked herself. She seemed to remember it was his right. Or was she mistaken?

That, however, was the same question a lot of others around Piper were asking.

“That guy took a dive!” she heard someone say in disgust.

“The ref must be blind,” another cried. “Our guys never touched him!”

“It's actually fairly common in Italian football to fake fouls,” Scott said, leaning toward Piper.

“They're not in Italy now,” Will said over his shoulder. “It's a crummy way to win.”

“It happens everywhere,” Scott insisted. “All kinds of fouls. The saying is ‘if the ref didn't see it, it didn't happen.' Or in this case, I suppose it'd be ‘if I scream loud enough, the ref has to believe it.'”

Piper didn't comment, but she was surprised to see Bianconeri resort to such tactics, assuming it was true. They were a good team, and the matches were exhibition. Apparently Raffaele Conti hated to lose, no matter what. The Cloverdale coach, she saw, was walking over to shake hands. Gerald Standley, however, could be seen rapidly striding the other way.

T
he group headed to Carlo's for pizza, as planned. Scott managed to tag along once again, counting, Piper was sure, on everyone's good manners, especially in front of Aunt Judy. It worked this time, but Piper resolved it would be the last time. She would definitely have a private talk with her relatives and friends on the subject and, if needed, a second serious talk with Scott.

The mood, when the group arrived, was much less lively than it had been the night before, though the owner, Carlo, or rather Carl, was definitely pleased to see them.

“Welcome!” The middle-aged, fair-haired but balding, clearly non-Italian “Carlo” greeted them, his smile just a bit strained and overeager. Piper could understand why. The place, unlike the last time she'd been there, was more than half empty. She didn't know if that was due to Conti's remarks on the radio or just a general disinclination of disgruntled spectators to celebrate after the questionable ending to the game. Either way, Carlo's business was obviously affected, and as a fellow Cloverdale businessperson, she empathized.

Once they were seated, she and her group did their best to be as upbeat as possible over their pizza and beers, but it was an effort as the conversation kept returning to the probably faked foul that clinched the game for Bianconeri.

Eventually Uncle Frank gave up, though he'd given it a decent amount of time. “Got a few things to do tomorrow,” he claimed, rising and pulling bills from his wallet to leave behind. Aunt Judy gave quick hugs and pats as she eased her way out.

Erin, disappointed that Ben hadn't been able to join them, was next, and Megan soon followed. That left Scott sitting with Piper and Will, a situation that Will tolerated for about thirty seconds before downing the last of his beer. “Ready?” he asked Piper, who nodded.

“Well,” Scott said with a downturned mouth as they rose, “I guess I'll just go back to my lonely hotel room.”

“Maybe there'll be a few Bianconeri players in the hotel bar to talk to,” Will said, pulling out his car keys.

Piper, who would have felt sympathy for anyone else, had none for her ex-fiancé. He was perfectly able to find his own entertainment. “Good night, Scott,” she said. “Good luck with your office shopping.”

T
he next afternoon, Piper took advantage of her Sunday closing to do a bit of inventory, working at it in a leisurely way. When the phone rang, she almost didn't answer, thinking it might be a customer query that she could deal with on Monday. But a glance at the caller ID revealed Amy's name.

“Are you sitting down?” Amy asked when Piper picked up.

“Why?” Piper, who'd been standing to check her supply of canning jars, didn't immediately reach for a chair. Though she was surprised to hear from her assistant that day, Amy's tone wasn't warning of deeply upsetting news, such as anything happening to Aunt Judy or Uncle Frank. It did sound serious, though.

“My dad was called out early this morning.”

“Oh?” Piper decided to ease over to one of her tall stools after all. Anything involving the sheriff was bound to be bad.

“It's Raffaele Conti.” Amy paused. “He's dead.”

Piper sucked in her breath. “What happened?” she asked, hoping it would be of natural causes—perhaps a sudden heart attack, or even a car accident, both terrible, of course, but still natural.

“I don't know many details,” Amy said. “But Conti was found in Gerald Standley's dill field.”

“The dill field!”

“Right in the middle of it,” Amy said. She then blew away the last of Piper's hopes. “He was shot.”

P
iper paced through her empty and shuttered store for several minutes after Amy's call, thinking over what she'd heard: Raffaele Conti, shot, and in Gerald Standley's dill field! It was all too much to deal with on her own. She needed help, so she grabbed her purse and keys and headed out to her aunt and uncle's farm.

Ever since her first summer spent there as a child, Piper had come to rely on the calm common sense that reigned at the farm. Her own parents, while loving, had always been much more absorbed with the past than the present. As archaeologists, of course, that was probably a given. But to an archaeologist's daughter that often meant growing up without a lot of helpful advice beyond “study hard” or “organize your collections.” Where were Peter and Sheila Lamb now? Bulgaria, or had they finished up there? Her parents were hard to keep track of, working as they usually did in remote, out-of-touch areas.

But two people in Piper's life who were nearly always available were the ones she was heading for now, hoping they could help her sort out an event that, while tragic in itself, could have grim consequences extending far beyond Conti himself.

Piper took back roads to get to the farm, unwilling to drive past Gerald Standley's dill field and view the clutch of official vehicles she knew would be there. As she turned into the farm's driveway, though, she realized with a start that her aunt and uncle might not be home. In her rush, she hadn't thought to call and check. But the sight of Aunt Judy's blue Equinox parked in its usual place immediately erased that concern.

Piper pulled onto the graveled parking area and heard Jack, the black-and-white mix-breed stray her aunt and uncle had adopted, barking. As she climbed out, he scurried up for an ear rub, his tail wagging furiously. Aunt Judy appeared from behind the house, pulling off gardening gloves, her face solemn.

“We called, but you must have already left,” she said. “I'm glad it was to come here.” Piper met her halfway and they hugged. “Want to come inside?” her aunt asked.

“I'm just as glad to help you weed if that's what you were doing.”

Aunt Judy did a quick check of Piper's jeans and rolled-sleeve shirt—acceptable weeding attire, apparently—and nodded. “That would be lovely,” she said. “You heard about poor Raffaele I take it?” she asked, turning to lead the way to the kitchen garden that she kept filled each year with vegetables and herbs for her cooking and canning.

“Amy called,” Piper said. “How did you hear?”

“Bill Vanderveer. He was driving by the dill field this morning on his way back from church—he goes early.” Aunt Judy tsked. “What a thing to happen on a Sunday morning—or any morning, for that matter.”

She found an extra pair of gardening gloves and a trowel in the small shed and handed them to Piper. “My squashes have been running rampant,” she said, bringing up a small smile. “It's like they sense winter is getting closer and are getting in as much growing as they can. But so are the weeds. I've been working on this row,” she said, pointing to a half-tidied area. “Pick any spot you like. There's an extra basket over there if you want it.”

Piper knew the drill, having worked beside Aunt Judy during many a hot summer. She also knew that weeding was one way her aunt dealt with a worrying situation—that, and scrubbing floors—so she wasn't at all surprised to find her hard at work. Piper grabbed a basket, pulled on her gloves, and got down on her knees, thankful at least that the day was mild enough to be outdoors. She wasn't particularly fond of scrubbing floors.

They worked quietly for a few moments until Piper said, “What worries me is where Conti was found.”

Aunt Judy looked up. “That's the first thing we thought of, too. Uncle Frank is over there now, on the off chance he can see Gerald.”

Piper sat back on her heels. “I can't imagine Gerald Standley capable of any sort of violence, can you? He's always been the good-natured farmer who grew excellent dill. But I was there when Raffaele Conti stepped off the team bus, and I witnessed Gerald's fury at sight of the man. I've also learned some of the history between them. Then there's the way last night's game ended, which upset plenty of people who didn't have nearly as much of a stake in it. Do you think, on top of everything else, that could have pushed Gerald over the edge?”

“It's so hard to say,” Aunt Judy said, her brow puckered. “Gerald has always been even tempered about the usual, everyday things. But when it came to soccer? Or his family? If Raffaele Conti crossed the line with both . . .” Aunt Judy shook her head. “But I don't think it's wise to speculate on anything at this point, do you? There's so much more we'd need to know.”

“You're right.” Piper pulled up a handful of weeds and plopped them into her basket. “For all we know the sheriff may have found evidence pointing to someone else altogether. Or even that it was suicide.” Though from what Piper knew of Conti, he was a man much too pleased with himself to commit suicide—especially in a dill field. That didn't keep her from holding on to the possibility, however unrealistic it might be.

Both heads turned as they heard the sound of a motor coming up the driveway. Jack, who'd been dozing in a nearby patch of sun, was on his feet in an instant.

“That sounds like Frank's truck,” Aunt Judy said, and she and Piper pulled themselves up—a little less briskly than Jack—and followed him to the front of the house. Uncle Frank was climbing out of his pickup when they got there.

“What did you find out?” Aunt Judy asked.

Uncle Frank shook his head. “Not much.” He pulled off his John Deere cap and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Conti's rental car was on the shoulder of the road, next to the Standley's field. Looked like it had a flat.”

“Might he have been going for help?” Aunt Judy asked.

“Possible, I suppose, but why not simply call for help on his cell phone? Why head into the field? I didn't get to see Gerald or Denise.” He looked from Aunt Judy to Piper, then back again.

“I'm pretty worried about them,” he said.

P
iper stayed at the farm, aware, for one thing, that it was the best place to be for hearing news, at least on a Sunday. Once her shop reopened the next day, she knew she'd get a steady flow of information, some of it even reliable. But for the time being, Uncle Frank and Aunt Judy would hear from their many friends around the town as quickly as there was any news to spread.

Her main reason, though, for staying nearby was seeing that her aunt and uncle wanted her to. A murder occurring nearby was upsetting enough. But the murder of a man they'd known in his youth was doubly so. The connection—at least by location—to a good friend tripled the stakes. Neither Uncle Frank nor Aunt Judy was overly emotional, but Piper could read the worry in their actions. Uncle Frank sat on a stump and sharpened tools that didn't appear to need sharpening, while Aunt Judy pulled at weeds with extra vigor—all between answering calls to their cell phones, which only added to their tension.

“Bill says the body's been taken off, but the sheriff's car is still at the house,” Uncle Frank said at one point.

A few minutes later, Aunt Judy reported that Trish Warren had tried to see Denise Standley but had been turned away by a deputy

“Who found the body?” Piper asked.

Uncle Frank shook his head. “Don't know. Maybe someone spotted the car and followed a trail in the field?”

“Oh, I hope it wasn't Denise who found him,” Aunt Judy said. “Or Miranda!”

Piper hoped it wasn't Gerald Standley who reported finding the body. She remembered the grilling she'd gotten after finding Brenda Franklin's body some weeks back. The first person on the scene was an automatic suspect, she knew, and Piper hadn't had anywhere near the history with Brenda that Gerald had with Conti.

Uncle Frank's phone rang, and Piper waited to hear what that call would bring. Her uncle's brow furrowed as he listened. “Uh-huh. Uh-oh. Sorry to hear that.” His eyebrows shot up. “Really! Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. Thanks, Roy.”

He disconnected and looked at the two women, who faced him expectantly. “Roy Linebarger,” he explained. “He says Gerald's been taken to the sheriff's office.”

“Arrested?” Piper asked.

“Don't know. All Roy saw was Gerald sitting in the back of Carlyle's car.”

“Oh, that doesn't sound good. Not good at all,” Aunt Judy said, and Piper had to agree.

“There's one other thing,” Uncle Frank said. “Turns out there was someone in town we didn't know about.”

“Yes?” Aunt Judy prompted.

“A woman. She arrived sometime yesterday, on her own.” He picked up the blade he'd been working on before the call and wiped it with a rag. Piper knew he was simply thinking over what he'd heard, but she wished mightily he'd share it with them.

So did Aunt Judy, apparently, as she cried, “Frank! Don't stop now! Who is she?”

Uncle Frank looked up in surprise as though he thought he'd already said it. “Oh! The woman? It's his wife. Conti's wife.”