The Pickled Piper (14 page)

T
he next morning, Piper dragged herself out of bed earlier than usual in order to accomplish what she'd promised herself to do: send off the e-mail to Scott that would set him straight on their relationship. She showered, dressed for work, then headed for the kitchen, planning to eat her breakfast from behind the laptop. She set coffee to brewing, then set a couple of scrambled eggs to frying. As they cooked, she popped toast in her toaster and pulled a jar of homemade apple butter from her refrigerator.

Her laptop sat waiting on her small kitchen table, and Piper bustled about doing enough things at once that she barely glanced out the window over her sink, though the sun streaming through it told her it would be another bright and warm day. It wasn't until she'd scraped the cooked eggs onto her plate and carried the empty pan to the sink that she actually looked outside. Her car was parked in the alley below, where she'd left it the night before. A fine coating of dew sparkled on the hatchback's hood, which Piper knew would burn off as soon as the sun rose a little higher.

She squirted soap into her pan and added hot water, but as Piper picked up the yellow-checked dish towel to wipe her hands, she took a second look out the window. Something struck her as odd about her car. She stared at it a moment then gasped. Her tires were flat! Not just one, but both tires on the driver's side.

Piper tossed the dish towel aside and trotted down the stairs, hoping against hope it had been a trick of the light or her not-quite-awake eyes. She reached the bottom of the stairs and hurried through her back room to the alley door, fumbling with the bolt before finally throwing it open.

She paused on the threshold, not really wanting to see what she feared she would, then stepped out and approached her car from the passenger side. She groaned. Both tires on that side were flat, too, rubber spreading outward on the concrete like overripe, gray tomatoes.

This was no fluke. There was no way she'd picked up nails in all four tires while driving through the paved streets between Martha Smidley's and her shop. This was deliberate, malicious vandalism. Not to mention costly. Piper allowed herself a single screech, then spun around and marched back into her shop.

“Sheriff's office?” she said, able by then to dial the number from memory. “I need to report a problem.”

• • •

S
heriff Carlyle arrived within minutes, this time without Ben Schaeffer. Carlyle stood looking down solemnly at Piper's flat tires after having examined all four closely.

“You seem to be having a rash of real bad luck lately.”

He'd already agreed with Piper that four flat tires at once was way too incredible to have happened accidentally. Paint on her brick storefront. Tipped garbage cans. Now this! Someone was trying to tell her something, but what, and more importantly, who?

“I don't suppose there's any way of identifying the culprit?” she asked.

The sheriff shook his head. “We don't have the money for video cameras on every Cloverdale street corner, not to mention the back alleys. I can have my deputies swing by a little more often during the night, but my manpower will only stretch so far. Things like removing tire stems—which is what looks like happened here—or throwing paint at walls don't leave clues like fingerprints. Now if you happened to look out and see anything . . . ?”

Piper shook her head. “I have a quirky habit of sleeping in the wee hours of the morning—or whenever these things occur. As do most of my neighbors, I suspect.”

“I'll ask around. Maybe one of them saw or heard something.” Sheriff Carlyle didn't look hopeful. “In the meantime, think hard about who might have a grudge against you.”

Piper had been doing that but was reluctant to bring up the one name that kept popping into her head because of Tina's wishful reasoning—that Charlotte Hosch's disagreeableness made her guilty of other crimes. She shook her head. “I just don't know,” she said, then shrugged. “Maybe it's simply troubled teens acting out, and I happen to be a convenient target.”

“Maybe,” the sheriff said, but he didn't look convinced.

He finished his examination and took off, and Piper went back into her shop to call a garage about fixing her tires. She wasn't at all surprised to get voice mail and glumly left her message. Good thing she had no urgent need to drive anywhere, she consoled herself, and wondered how much this latest “prank” was going to cost her. Then she had a sudden frightening thought. With all her attention focused behind her store, she'd never thought to check out front!

Piper hurried through her shop and out the front door. She heaved a sigh. No sign of more damage to the front of her shop, and—perhaps more importantly—her new Christmas tree appeared untouched and in good shape. Thank heaven for small favors! She patted the healthy-looking dark green branches and leaned down to check the pot. The dirt felt dry, so she went back inside and filled a quart-sized measuring cup with water. As she emptied it slowly into the pot, she listened to the soft
glug-glug
as the roots gradually absorbed it, surprised at how good that made her feel—possibly how feeding hungry strays made Aunt Judy feel. But Piper, at least, hadn't started talking to her spruce, though she feared a few more “incidents” just might turn her in that direction.

Piper trotted back up to her apartment where she gazed, hands on hips, at her cold scrambled eggs and toast. She could reheat both in the microwave but found she had lost her appetite. Instead she tossed them into the garbage and poured out coffee from the still-hot carafe, then closed up the laptop that sat waiting for her to compose the e-mail to Scott. That message would have to wait a bit longer, as life had once again pushed itself in the way of her best-laid plans. It was time to open up Piper's Picklings as well as think hard about other things.

• • •

P
iper pulled out the basket of zucchini Uncle Frank had given her, feeling the need for action after the not-so-great start of her day. What better way to ease anger and frustration than to grab a sharp knife and chop? The primitive side of her brain, she was sure, would appreciate that sort of activity. Perhaps she could even use it in her advertising brochure?

Put that aggravation to use—chop and pickle those veggies. Your family will thank you—both now and later.

As her distress-fueled chopping took on a certain rhythm, an appropriate tune, “I've Got a Little List,” eased its way into her head, keeping time with the action of her knife, and soon Piper was humming along with Ko-Ko's list of all the annoying people who “never would be missed.” As she worked, Piper easily thought of a few of her own to add. But she felt her mood steadily improve and instead of grabbing a pen and paper simply reached for another onion.

The bell attached to her shop door jingled, and Piper grabbed a towel to wipe her hands and head out. Her visitor was Megan, and they met midway.

“You're here bright and early,” Piper said.

“Amy's not answering her cell, but she probably just hopped in the shower or whatever after working late at A La Carte. But I wrangled some pretty interesting news from my brother, Ben, that I thought both of you would want to know.” Megan was dressed in denim shorts and a tee and Piper figured she was on her way to the SPCA for her weekly volunteer work.

“What is it?”

“Dennis Isley's checking account had two deposits of three thousand dollars each this week.”

“Payment from Ira Perkins for the roofing job?”

Megan shook her head. “Mr. Perkins gave Dennis his down payment for the new roof a month ago. He was going to pay the rest when the job was done. Plus he paid Dennis by check. These deposits, Ben said, were cash.”

“Wow! That much in cash? That's pretty suspicious.”

“It sure looks like someone was paying Dennis off, and it started right after Alan Rosemont was murdered.”

Piper nodded excitedly. “That must let Nate off the hook. He surely didn't have that much money.”

Megan's face darkened. “My thoughts exactly. But Ben,” she said with an impatient flick of her long hair, “not surprisingly, doesn't agree. Which means the sheriff probably doesn't think so, either. Ben claims Nate could have had a secret cache of funds or had someone to call on for the money.”

“That's ridiculous! Nate's been living hand to mouth ever since he arrived in Cloverdale.”

“I know! But typical Ben thinks that could have been all for show.”

Piper sank down on a stool. “Poor Nate. He can't win for losing, can he? Either he's a penniless, no-good drifter, or he's secretly rich but hiding his money—for what? In case he needs to pay off a blackmailer?”

“Apparently.”

Piper shook her head in frustration. “Well, at least we now can guess why Dennis was pulled off that roof.”

Megan nodded. “Blackmailers really need to be careful about climbing up on roofs. Or doing anything, for that matter, like walking down dark alleys or driving on deserted roads. They just set themselves up.”

“The scary thing about Dennis's murder,” Piper said, “is that it happened in broad daylight when anyone could have come along. It was a pretty gutsy thing to do.”

“Plus,” Megan said, “whoever did it wasn't a stranger who might have been noticed and remembered. It was someone who blended right in.” She grimaced at the thought. “That gutsy person—who's killed two people already—could be anyone we know.”

A
fter Piper promised to bring Amy up to date on this latest information, Megan left for the animal shelter. As she returned to her pickling prep in the back, Piper puzzled over the obvious question: who was Dennis blackmailing—a risky venture that ended up getting him killed instead of making him richer?

As manager of a supermarket, Gordon Pfiefle would have been able to easily lay his hands on six thousand dollars in cash to pay Dennis off. Ralph Farber, owning his own plumbing business, might also have had accessible money. What about Robby Taylor, Dorothy Taylor's son? Piper still hadn't pinpointed his whereabouts on Thursday when Dennis was killed. Would he be able to scare up six thousand in a hurry?

Piper finished slicing the zucchinis and onions and mixed pickling salt in with them in a large bowl. She covered all with cold water, then left it to sit as she returned to her front counter. Her phone rang, and—miracle of miracles—it was the garage returning her call about her tires.

“I'll send my guy out to look at them,” garage owner Rodney Knotts promised her. “Might be he can fix them in place. If not, we'll have to tow.”

That call reminded Piper to check with Max Noland about his plans for cleaning off the paint splash.
Can't let these damage repairs start piling up
, she thought grimly. Her call to Noland reached only his answering system, so she left a second inquiring message that was a tad testier than her first.

Two customers stopped in within a few minutes of each other. Piper helped them out, learning from the second woman that she was a longtime pickler who was delighted to find a shop nearby that catered to her particular culinary joy. As this customer was gathering up her purchases, Amy arrived, looking more down than she had the day before.

Piper was eager to share Megan's news, certain that would perk Amy up. But her latest customer continued to linger, coming up with one pickling anecdote after another, each remembered after making what Piper hoped was her final good-bye. Finally the woman went out the door, and Piper turned to her assistant.

“Megan stopped in earlier,” she said and shared the story of Dennis Isley's mysterious bank deposits. “We both think that should let Nate off the hook, since where would he come up with that kind of money? Ben has a differing theory on that, but I think your father would surely agree that he should look elsewhere for a blackmailer and murderer.”

Amy didn't look as excited as Piper expected. “I don't know what my father's thinking,” she said, “but I do know what A La Carte's management is thinking.”

Uh-oh.

“They fired Nate last night. Or, as they put it,” Amy said, making air quotes, “temporarily suspended his performances until this unfortunate matter is cleared up.”

“Oh, shoot!”

“I used stronger words than that. Out of management's earshot, of course. I have to keep my own job there, for now.” Amy looked at Piper with a mixture of anger and anguish in her eyes. “It's so unfair! None of this is Nate's fault! I don't know what he'll do without a job. How will he pay his rent?”

“We can figure something out. Nate's not exactly friendless. There are people who believe in him and who will help.”

“He won't take charity, I'm sure of that.”

“It shouldn't have to come to that. Something will surely come up.” Piper said it with confidence for Amy's sake, and she truly did hope so herself. But at the moment things looked bleak for Nate. How many openings were there in a small town for a singer-musician? Especially one whose reputation was rapidly spiraling downward?

“Until another job materializes,” Piper said, “the best thing we can do for Nate is uncover the actual murderer of Alan Rosemont and Dennis Isley.”

“Are we getting any closer to that?” Amy asked.

“We're learning more every day,” Piper said, hoping that sounded more encouraging than it felt. “What you learned about Lyella Pfiefle's activity on Thursday, plus Megan and Erin's information about her husband Gordon's false excuse to leave TopValuFood around the same time, sent me for a chat with Martha Smidley. All stories combined put the Pfiefles in a very suspicious light. But probably not enough to convince the sheriff yet.

“I still want to find out more about Robby Taylor,” Piper continued, “and haven't been able to figure out how to do that. When Aunt Judy last tried talking to his mother about Robby, Mrs. Taylor clammed up.”

Amy grew thoughtful. “I remember seeing Robby going in to the Yeager Real Estate Agency not too long ago. I was pulling up to get a hair trim at Alexander's next door. Maybe Robby's planning to move back to Cloverdale, in which case Mr. Yeager might be keeping in touch with him.”

“Hmm. Worth a try,” Piper said. “It's certainly more than what I have otherwise, which is close to zilch. Maybe I'll run out there right now.” Piper started untying her apron. “While I'm gone, there's a big bowl of zucchini in salt water in the back that'll need its first drain and rinse in a few minutes.”

“I'm on it,” Amy said.

“Oh, and someone from the garage might show up.” She explained, to Amy's dismay, about the flattened tires. “And if Max Noland happens to call here instead of my cell to schedule the paint cleanup, grab the earliest available time.”

At that, Piper stuffed her apron under the counter and snatched her purse. She caught her reflection in the wall mirror behind the register and realized she could greatly benefit from a visit to a hair salon herself. Unfortunately, the mounting need for repairs was gobbling up any spare funds for such luxuries. Piper ran her fingers through her chin-length hair and wondered how she'd look with a thick braid hanging down to her hips, which might be the hairstyle of choice if the vandalism wasn't stopped.

• • •

S
tan Yeager had helped Piper in her search for a suitable shop with living quarters not too long ago, and she remembered him as a friendly, chatty man who seemed to have forgotten that Piper had spent many summers in Cloverdale and therefore had at least a basic knowledge of the town. Today she didn't care if he remembered anything about her. What she wanted was information on Robby Taylor.

Piper walked into the real estate agency and spotted the fifty-something Yeager at his desk, talking on the phone. He nodded cheerily to her and held up an index finger to signal he'd be with her shortly. The agency was a small one—Yeager being the agent-owner with one other part-time associate. But Cloverdale was a small town that wasn't exactly booming with development, which seemed to suit most of its inhabitants just fine.

“Well, young lady,” Yeager said as he finished with his call. “What can I do for you today?” He unfolded his lanky frame from the desk chair to stand several inches over Piper, smiling affably.

To be on the safe side, Piper reintroduced herself, reminding Yeager of the pickling shop he'd helped her establish.

“Right! Right! How's that going? A big success, I hope? And now you're ready to branch out in a second location?”

He seemed to be only half joking, and Piper hurriedly assured him that though doing well enough, she had a long way to go before thinking in those terms. “I'm here, actually, with a question about Robby Taylor.”

“Robby Taylor?” Yeager's eyes lit up. “Are you interested in Dorothy's place?”

“Um—”

“It's not officially on the market, yet, but I can let Robby know you'd like first dibs on the house. It's a grand old place, just perfect for a discriminating young person like yourself looking for something out of the ordinary. Loaded with charm, plenty of room to spread out, and for”—he actually winked at this—“the kiddies someday. And the price—as is—should be real attractive. The bit of fixing up it needs should be no problem whatsoever for that young man of yours, who—”

Oh good Lord. “So Robby's mother is selling her house?” Piper interrupted.

Yeager pulled up at that, saying cautiously, “It looks highly possible. The place is certainly much too big for Dorothy and more than Robby can maintain for her long-distance. She hasn't signed on the dotted line yet, but I'm convinced she's on the verge. Robby was here just the other day—”

“Thursday? Someone mentioned they thought they'd seen him in town then.”

“Why, yes, it was Thursday, as a matter of fact. Thursday afternoon. Anyway, he'd just spoken with his mother, and he stopped in to let me know he'll probably have the signed papers for me very soon. I can let you know when they're ready to show it. Nice big yard. A little paint and plaster and the place could be ready to move in by—”

“That's okay, there's no hurry at all. I think Dorothy told me her son lives in Poughkeepsie. Is that right?”

“Yes, that's exactly right. He moved there, let me see . . . good heavens, it must be at least twenty years ago! He took a job at a fitness gym, you know, one of those places with all the weights and treadmills and other instruments of torture.” Another wink. “He was a personal trainer, if I remember rightly. Must have been pretty good at it, because a couple of years ago he invested in a gym of his own. Of course, Dorothy may have pitched in some, financially. He was always the light in her eye, and she'd do anything for him.”

Including giving up her house if he asked? Piper wondered if Dorothy was really ready to do that, or if Robby had suddenly become desperate for cash and was tightening the screws on a doting mother. Piper had never met Robby, but Stan Yeager's information about Robby's line of work told her he would certainly be strong enough to do away with Alan Rosemont if he were so inclined, plus lift his body into Piper's pickle barrel.

That last part still rankled Piper. If Robby—or anyone else—murdered Alan Rosemont, why did they have to involve her pickle barrel? The instant she had the thought, Piper chided herself. A piece of equipment—proud as she'd been of it—was the least of the problems. Two men were dead, and a third was under deep suspicion for their murders, his life in danger of being ruined forever.

Robby Taylor had been in town on Thursday. That, on top of his having been furious at Alan for fleecing Dorothy out of her antiques, certainly kept him in the running with her other suspects.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Yeager.”

“Not at all. As I said, I'll let you know as soon as the Taylors are ready to show the house, and you can bring your young man—”

“Hey, look at the time! Gotta run.” Piper left Stan Yeager in mid-thought, delighted to hear his phone ring, which would hopefully distract him from images of her house hunting along with Will.

Poor Will. If he only knew what he'd gotten himself into by giving her that Christmas tree.

Or did he?