“What do you mean?” Tina asked.
“Didn’t she tell you?” the man asked, indicating Piper. “Rosemont’s body was dumped in her pickle barrel!”
Piper grimaced, wishing fervently, first of all, that it hadn’t happened, but next that that particular information could somehow have been kept quiet. Impossible, of course, but—
“Tina!” Piper cried, realizing that the coffee shop owner had turned white as a turnip. Tina started sinking down, and Piper grabbed on to her. “Give her some room, please,” Piper begged, waving people back and bracing Tina as she eased to a sitting position on the ground. “Does anyone have water?”
A nearby woman passed over a bottle, and Piper twisted the cap off. Tina took a sip, then followed it soon with a longer gulp, and Piper was relieved to see color gradually return to her face.
“Should I call someone from first aid?” the man asked.
“No!” Tina cried, waving. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“Maybe you should let them check you out,” Piper said.
But Tina had struggled to her feet. “I’m okay, really.”
The woman who’d handed over her water bottle said, “Pete and I were just about to leave. Why don’t we drive you home?”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Piper said.
Tina, after some hesitation, nodded agreement, and after a few more sips of water and apologies for the trouble, she took off with the couple.
Piper felt terrible for springing the news about Alan Rosemont on Tina as she had, though, of course, she’d had no idea Tina would react so strongly. She made a mental note to be much more careful in the future.
Aunt Judy came bustling up. “Oh, thank goodness. I was just making my way over here when I saw the commotion. I worried it might be you.” She gave Piper a hug. “What a terrible thing to happen,” she said, looking toward Piper’s covered-up booth. “Are you okay?”
“Not too bad,” Piper said. “Better than some, I suppose.”
“That poor man,” Judy said. “Who could have done such a thing? He wasn’t the easiest person to get along with, but still . . .”
Her aunt’s question reminded Piper of Ben Schaeffer’s advice to the sheriff, that he check the whereabouts of Nate Purdy. Surely that hadn’t been taken seriously, had it?
Just then Amy ran up, her red hair loose and flying. “I just heard! How awful! And your poor pickle barrel! Will you ever be able to use it again?”
That was something Piper didn’t want to think about yet. “Amy, have you spoken to Nate lately?” she asked.
“Nate? Not since he took off from A La Carte yesterday with his guitar. Why?”
At that point, Sheriff Carlyle came up, his face all seriousness. “Amy, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you.”
Amy looked puzzled but pulled her cell phone out to check it. “I guess I forgot to turn it on. Why? What did you want? I told you I was stopping at Megan’s on my way here.”
The sheriff looked relieved. “That’s right. I forgot. Look, we’re trying to find Nate Purdy. He’s not at his place. Do you know where he is?”
“Nate?” Amy searched her father’s face. “Why are you . . . ?” She glanced toward the booth. “Daddy! You can’t be thinking—!”
“We just need to talk to him, honey. Now, do you know where he is?”
Just then, Aunt Judy made a soft “Oh!” sound, and Piper turned to follow her stare. Nate strolled at a distance, hands in his pockets and looking as if he didn’t have a care. Then he stopped, apparently spotting the gathered crowd and official vehicles and several pairs of eyes on him.
“There he is!” Ben Schaeffer shouted. Two deputies took off to intercept the startled-looking musician.
“Daddy, you can’t do this!”
“Honey, this is police business. Please go home. I mean now!”
“No, Daddy! This is all wrong!” But Amy’s pleas fell on empty air as her father left to join his deputies.
She turned to Piper. “This can’t be happening!”
“It must be just routine, Amy.” But as all three watched Nate being led to a waiting squad car, Piper began to share some of Amy’s worries, especially as Ben Schaeffer walked closely beside Sheriff Carlyle, speaking steadily in his ear. She knew Ben’s bias against Nate, and she’d picked up the sheriff’s leanings toward Ben as a suitor for his daughter. The question was, how much trouble did that spell for Nate?
• • •
“Daddy won’t tell me a thing!” Amy cried, looking distraught as she entered Piper’s Picklings that afternoon.
Piper sat at her shop table behind a large bowl. She’d begun putting together a batch of mixed pickling spices, lining up large-mouthed jars of spices on her table along with measuring cups and spoons. The blend of aromas arising from cloves, ginger, dill seeds, nutmeg, and more was wonderful, making it one of her favorite parts of the job. But that afternoon she’d tackled it mainly to keep her mind off what she’d seen that morning.
The sheriff’s men had promised to let her know when her booth and all its contents would be released, so she’d reluctantly given up her vigil of staring at the privacy shields and headed back to the shop. But Amy’s distress took precedence over spice blending at the moment, so Piper set her scoop down.
“My guess is that he can’t tell you anything. That your father would be way out of line if he did.”
“I know, I know. That’s what he always says. But this is Nate!” Amy started pacing the length of Piper’s worktable. After two or three brisk passes, she looked down. “Want me to crush those cinnamon sticks?”
“Sure!” Besides being a help, Piper hoped it might work off some of Amy’s frustration. She pushed a mortar and pestle Amy’s way, then got up and switched on the shop radio, searching for soothing music. The classical music station came up with the goods.
They worked together silently for a while, Piper measuring and Amy pulverizing—at first with such energy that Piper feared her cinnamon sticks might not be just crushed but liquefied. But gradually her assistant’s white-knuckled grip on the pestle loosened and Amy’s voice calmed.
“Daddy probably took Nate in simply to check him off the list,” she said as much to herself as to Piper. “Nate had that argument with Rosemont—did you know a lot of people called him Pinky?” she asked, looking up. Piper nodded, and she went on. “But Nate wasn’t the only one to ever fight with that man. Not by a long shot. He just happened to be one of the latest, and unfortunately it was out in public. It’s fresh on everyone’s minds, so of course Nate’s the first person they think of. They’ll talk to him and find he was at his place all night. He was practicing his guitar, for goodness’ sake! The whole neighborhood can probably verify it.”
“That’s great. That’ll put an end to it.” Piper added a cup of mustard seeds to her bowl.
The radio station had moved on to Gilbert and Sullivan’s light music. Piper smiled and hummed along for a measure or two, then scooped out a tablespoon of nutmeg. Amy added her cinnamon to the mix, and Piper stirred. She was ready to portion out her batch of mixed pickling spices into jars.
Piper got the funnel, and Amy pulled out labels from one of the drawers. They worked carefully in companionable silence, Piper filling and Amy pasting labels, until Piper happened to glance up. Erin Healy was hurrying toward her shop. Erin, she knew, had been Amy’s friend since kindergarten, and with her dark hair and large brown eyes was a contrast to her friend in looks as well as temperament, being generally quieter and more reserved. At the moment, however, “reserved” was not the word Piper would have applied to her, especially as she burst through the shop’s door.
“Amy, did you know your father’s been questioning Nate!”
“I know,” Amy cried, jumping up from her chair, all her hard-won calm disappearing in a moment. “I hate it, and I can�
�t wait till it’s over and done with!”
“But did you also know Nate’s getting a lawyer?”
“What! Why? How can he get a lawyer? He can barely afford food.”
“All I know is he was seen going into Darryl Huggard’s office.”
“Oh Lord.” Amy sank down in her chair, her shoulders drooping.
“Who’s Darryl Huggard?” Piper asked.
“Only the worst lawyer anyone could have to represent him,” Amy said with a dramatic eye roll. “But he’s cheap, which is why Nate probably picked him. Why should he need a lawyer at all?”
At that moment, Nate himself walked in, looking grim.
“Nate!” Amy bounced up and hugged him. “Are you okay? What happened?” She pulled back, looking at his face. “And why are you talking to Darryl Huggard?”
Nate gave a half smile. He looked at Piper, who’d stayed behind her table. “Sorry to bring all this into your shop. It’s just, I wanted to see Amy. To explain.”
Erin had eased away, giving her friends space, but Nate put a friendly hand on her shoulder and drew her back. Piper remembered that Erin was on the bus the day Amy and Nate met and had fully endorsed their budding romance. Nate probably remembered, and appreciated, that, too.
“I’m glad you came, Nate,” Piper said. “Now, please tell us what’s going on.”
Nate ran his fingers through his hair. “Things have been happening so fast I can barely wrap my head around it. But I seem to be a ‘person of interest.’ Maybe front and center.”
“But why?” Amy asked. “You were home all night, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was.” Nate looked steadily at her. “I absolutely was from nine o’clock on. But I was alone. Nobody can back me up.”
That’s not good, Piper thought, but she kept silent.
“Around maybe eight or so, I needed to replace a string on my guitar,” Nate said. “I went out to the music store, but it was closed. Ninety percent of the stores in town seem to be closed because of the fair. So I didn’t see anybody I know, went back to my apartment, watched some TV, and turned in early. Nobody heard me practicing because I couldn’t practice. But I was home the rest of the night, and that’s the truth.”
He slumped into the chair opposite Piper. “That’s why I went to talk to Huggard. I’m sure I’ll be called back for further questioning or worse. He wants a retainer, and I don’t have it right now. But I’ll scrape one up.”
“Nate, this is awful.” Amy said it quietly, fully grasping the pickle Nate was in. “We know you didn’t kill Alan Rosemont. Why should you have to prove you didn’t?”
“It hasn’t come to that, yet,” Erin pointed out softly. “Maybe they’ll find evidence that will point to someone else.”
“And maybe they won’t look as hard if they think they already have their man,” Amy said worriedly, and Piper feared she had a point. Then Amy said something that totally caught her by surprise.
“Piper,” she said. Amy leaned earnestly her way. “I’ll bet you could come up with something that would help Nate. Would you try?”
5
“Amy wants me to look into Alan Rosemont’s murder.” Piper sat at Aunt Judy and Uncle Frank’s kitchen table, having been urged to come for dinner. After the day Piper had just experienced, her aunt hadn’t needed to press hard. Gracie, Aunt Judy’s plump gray cat and another of a string of rescued strays, leaped up onto Piper’s lap and offered an ear to be scratched.
Aunt Judy glanced over her shoulder from the stove where she was testing the doneness of her boiling potatoes with a fork. “Why you?”
Piper sighed. “She seems to think that because I was once engaged to a criminal lawyer, I have some kind of special, insider-type knowledge.”
Aunt Judy smiled knowingly.
“I know,” Piper said. “If only it were that easy.” She shifted Gracie to a more comfortable position. “Although Scott did talk an awful lot about what they did on the investigating end of their cases.”
“Well, there you go. You’re all set.”
Piper laughed. “I wish. Though I really would like to do something to help. Nate seems so alone, except for the few friends he’s made here in Cloverdale.”
“He seems like a nice young man.”
“I like him, too. Unfortunately, not everyone does. Alan Rosemont, for one, obviously really, really disliked him.”
“Well, Alan . . .” Aunt Judy set down her testing fork and took a peek at the roast in her oven.
“I don’t suppose it would hurt to just poke around a bit,” Piper said. “It sounds like Alan Rosemont ruffled enough feathers to make more than one person want to do away with him.” She shifted Gracie to the floor, then stood to take plates from her aunt to set the table. “I’ve already heard about the terrible paint job on the library that Rosemont was responsible for.”
Uncle Frank walked into the kitchen, chuckling. “Lyella Pfiefle was fit to be tied,” he said, leaning over to give Piper a peck on the cheek.
“Don’t laugh, Frank,” Aunt Judy scolded. “How would you like one of your barns to end up looking like that?”
“I wouldn’t like it one bit. But I wouldn’t run around clucking like a wet hen for weeks on end about it.”
“She surely didn’t fuss that long. Here, pull that roast out of the oven for me and set it on the carving board, will you?” Uncle Frank grabbed the oven mitts, and Aunt Judy waited until her roast was safely settled before adding, “But Lyella was upset, that’s for sure. Alan had Dennis Isley do the painting when Lyella was away for a library convention. It must have been a terrible shock for her when she got back. People said she marched into Alan’s antique shop and chewed him out royally. He ended up pushing her out and locking his door.”
“Maybe I should find out where Lyella Pfiefle was around the time Alan Rosemont was murdered?”
“Amy’s asked Piper to find out who might have wanted to kill Alan other than Nate Purdy,” Aunt Judy explained to her husband. “Oh,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I forgot my wax beans. The ones I put up with honey and ginger. I want you to try them, Piper.”
She disappeared into her pantry, and Uncle Frank picked up a carving knife and began swiping it against the sharpener. “Sure,” he said to Piper, “go talk to Lyella. See if she has an alibi. Someone that upset? No telling what she might do.”
Piper nodded but wondered about Uncle Frank’s sudden lip twitch. When he ducked his head and began poking at the roast with the carving fork, she decided he must be starving and got out the butter and milk for the potatoes to get things moving along.
• • •
By midafternoon on Sunday, Piper’s wares had been released by the crime scene crew and safely hauled back from the fair to her store with the help of many. Since she wouldn’t have opened for business that day anyway, and Aunt Judy had assured her the library would be open, Piper decided to run over to see if she could catch Lyella Pfiefle. She headed off on foot to cover the few blocks there, enjoying the exercise but also appreciating the shade offered by the trees that lined both sides of Beech Street on that warm day.
Piper had visited the library often during her summers with Aunt Judy and Uncle Frank but hadn’t been back since her move and all the hustle and bustle of setting up her new shop. But she remembered many happy hours spent browsing through the children’s books, then graduating to more grown-up sections. She may have seen Lyella among other library workers in those days, but the adults might as well have had fuzzy blobs for faces, focused as Piper had been on finding the perfect book.
She turned off Beech Street, remembering that the library would be one more turn off of Third Street two blocks ahead. With her thoughts busy with what she wanted to learn about Lyella, Piper forgot for the moment about the library’s drastic color change. As she turned onto Maple, however, it hit her full force.
“Whoa!”
Her informant from the fair’s livestock barns had compared the look to a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, and he hadn’t exaggerated. The library, which Piper remembered as a stately, decades-old converted house with white siding and black shutters, had been turned into an amusement park fun house. The shutters were still black, but that only served to emphasize the garish pinkness of the rest of the building.
Piper was at once horrified and on the verge of giddy laughter. It was just too awful. She could only imagine how Lyella Pfiefle must have felt to see it and to hear her beloved library become the butt of jokes. Did it make her mad enough to want to kill the person responsible? Piper hoped to find out.
Fighting down the feeling of walking into a giant clown’s mouth, she entered the library and was relieved to find the interior pretty much as she remembered it. A scattering of patrons browsed among tall shelves of books, and one or two sat at computer tables. The overall quiet gave an air of both study and coziness and brought back all of Piper’s good feelings of years ago. To her, going to the library had always been like a treasure hunt, with riches only waiting to be discovered. Today, however, she was on a totally different kind of hunt and wasn’t all too sure what she might find. Piper went up to the checkout desk and asked the plump, friendly-looking woman there if Lyella Pfiefle was around.
“She’s in the meeting room right now,” the woman said. “It’s story time for the preschoolers. You can go in if you like and wait. She’ll be done in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.” Piper headed toward the meeting room at the back, catching the sounds of a woman’s reading voice and children’s titters as she drew closer. The open doorway allowed her to slip in quietly, and she joined a line of mothers—and a few fathers—at the back, who shuffled together to make room for her. Once Piper settled in and got a good look at the librarian standing at the head of the room, she sputtered out a laugh—luckily during a loud shriek from the children.
The Pickled Piper Page 4