The Pickled Piper (2 page)

T
he fair was in full swing, with crowds of families milling about between rides, livestock exhibits, and vendors, some holding bags of their purchases.

Piper's booth, to her delight, was drawing brisk sales, both from her pickle barrel and one other surprising item—her pickled watermelon. On an impulse, she'd set a couple of jars on the front counter, next to the brochures she'd printed up to introduce her shop. The jars piqued plenty of interest, and Piper soon found herself explaining to many a customer that these were in fact pickles made from watermelon rinds, and that the sweet, tangy flavor came from the combination of vinegar, brown sugar, sliced lemon, cinnamon, allspice, and cloves. Usually before she'd run through the entire list of ingredients, hands would dip into pockets or purses to buy, and Amy would be reaching for replacements from the back.

Next in line of popularity were Piper's boxes and packets of spices, which were eye-catching to anyone interested in preserving their own delicious bounty of garden produce. Piper had just bagged up one such purchase when a male to her right said in a deep, rolling voice, “Hi there, sugarplum.” A salt-and-pepper-haired man with a slight paunch stood on the other side of the counter, his thumbs hooked into the belt of his black uniform.

“Hi, Daddy,” Amy said. She leaned over to plant an affectionate kiss on Sheriff Carlyle's cheek. “But please,” she begged in a low voice, “don't call me sugarplum in public.”

“Hello, Amy.” Piper hadn't noticed the man next to the sheriff until he spoke. Younger, dark-haired, and an inch or two taller than the sheriff, he wore what Piper at first took to be a deputy's uniform until she spotted the badge on the sleeve that said “Auxiliary Officer.” He was gazing at Amy with near puppy-dog eagerness.

“Hi, Ben,” Amy said much more casually, as though greeting an often-seen older cousin. “I see you're helping Dad for the weekend.” She turned to Piper. “You know my dad, but have you met Ben Schaeffer?”

“No, I haven't. How do you do?” Piper extended a hand to the man who wrenched his gaze away from Amy with obvious effort. “What is an auxiliary officer?” she asked after his quick handshake.

“It's a new volunteer program,” Sheriff Carlyle explained. “Ben, here, is our top man. The volunteers fill in a few hours a week as an extra set of eyes and ears for the department.”

“Do you make arrests?”

“Oh no,” Ben assured her. He had pulled himself up a little straighter and tucked his shirt in a bit tighter. “But we'll definitely issue warnings to speeders if we catch them on radar.”

“The auxiliary officers operate the radar guns from our squad cars,” Sheriff Carlyle informed her. “Just seeing the cars parked along the highway works to slow down most traffic. They also pitch in on things like directing traffic. It really helps free up my deputies.”

“Sounds like a great program.”

Both the sheriff and Ben voiced agreement, but Piper noticed Ben's gaze had turned back to Amy. Amy, however, was looking over his shoulder into the crowd.

“Here comes your Aunt Judy,” she said, “and Nate!”

The faces of both men darkened perceptively before they turned. Piper didn't believe for a moment it was because of Aunt Judy, who was just about the best-loved person in Cloverdale. So the negativity must have been meant for Nate.

“You should see Alice Kippler's peach pies!” Aunt Judy exclaimed as she came near. “Absolutely beautiful. They'll win a prize for sure. Oh, hello, Sheriff Carlyle. And Ben! How nice to see you both.”

The sheriff and Ben greeted Aunt Judy warmly but barely managed a nod for Nate. Nate seemed blissfully unaware, having quickly circled around to Amy. The sheriff continued to respond amiably to Aunt Judy's chatter, but Piper saw Ben watching Amy and Nate, and the look on his face, though showing dislike of Nate, included enough pain to make Piper's own heart ache for him.

The man was obviously crazy about Amy, yet Amy seemed oblivious. Each nod of her head toward the young musician, each laugh at Nate's jokes or touch of his arm made the auxiliary officer wince. Piper saw the sheriff glance Ben's way then take in Amy and Nate with a shake of his head. Sheriff Carlyle at least was aware of Ben's feelings, even if his daughter was not. And he clearly didn't care much for her leanings toward Nate.

• • •

L
ater on, during the late afternoon lull, Piper found a chance to talk to Amy about what she had observed. Amy would be taking off soon for her job at A La Carte and was checking for any last-minute things she could do.

“So, Ben Schaeffer,” Piper said, plowing right in. “I guess you've known him a long time?”

“Ben?” Amy pulled a handful of brochures from their under-counter box and started refilling the wire “Take One” holders. “Oh, sure. I've known him, like, forever. He's my friend Megan's older brother.”

“Ah, Megan Schaeffer. I should have connected the name. How much older?”

“Gee, let me think. He was graduating from college when we were sixteen, I remember. So he must be . . . twenty-seven!”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. Twenty-seven isn't that old. But Ben always seemed like one of the grown-ups when I was just a kid showing up at Megan's to play. And he spends so much time with my dad. I suppose that makes me think of him as part of Dad's generation. But he's only twenty-seven. Wow!” Amy shook her head.

“What does he do when he's not volunteering for the sheriff's department?”

“Ben has his own insurance office. It's over on Beech Street near the bank.”

“Very enterprising.” And possibly very dull and mundane to someone like Amy, who clearly leaned toward the more creative things in life. Her father, however, might see it very differently, caring more for the financial stability of anyone showing interest in his daughter. Something he clearly wasn't seeing in Nate Purdy.

Amy's thoughts had clearly left Ben for Nate, too, though in a much more upbeat way. She checked her watch, saying, “Nate should be here any minute to ride with me over to A La Carte.”

“He's performing tonight?”

“No, they canceled tonight, figuring a low turnout because of the fair. But he needs to pick up his guitar to practice some new material.” She scanned the crowd, frowning as she didn't see him. “He really could have used the talent show gig, you know. A La Carte doesn't pay all that much. But Alan Rosemont has the fair organizers under his thumb, just like he has most everyone else around here.”

The name started ringing more bells for Piper. “Is Rosemont on the town council?”

“Uh-huh. And you'd think he was elected mayor by the number of times he manages to get his way on council decisions. Dad's been aggravated more than once because of his penny-pinching on things that affect his department.”

“Tina Carson, the woman who just opened the coffee shop down the street from me, also had problems with him, I remember now. Rosemont felt that part of town had enough eateries and wanted to block approval for her permit.”

“I'm not surprised. But she got to open her shop after all.”

“Right, after a major struggle.”

“Oh, there's Nate!” Amy reached down to grab her purse from under the counter.

Piper looked over to see Nate winding his way through the crowd. He was perhaps thirty feet away when she heard someone call out sharply, “Purdy!” Nate stopped and looked to his left. Piper followed his gaze to see a large man of about fifty dressed in a Scottish kilt and tasseled socks closing in on the musician. She caught her breath as she observed the dark look on the man's face and his clenched hands. Several people in his path scattered out of the way.

“Who is that?” Piper asked, though from the costume she thought she could guess.

“Oh Lord. It's Alan Rosemont. What does he want?”

“Trouble, it looks like.”

Rosemont's face was florid as he shouted at Nate, shaking a fist. “I want you to keep away from my shop from now on!” he said. “You cost me a major sale, putting your worthless two cents in when nobody asked you. You wouldn't know a samurai sword from a Swiss Army knife.”

Nate's face flushed. “I know enough to tell what's genuine and what's not.”

“Oh yeah? And you've been handling antiques for how long?” Rosemont asked with a sneer. He had now closed in on Nate, but still shouted. “You're nothing but a deadbeat troublemaker, Purdy, poking your nose into other people's business. We don't need your kind here.”

“My kind?” Nate drew in a deep breath before asking, “You mean someone who hates to see a tourist being suckered? Or do you mean someone who actually knows a thing or two about music and might run a decent talent show?”

“Oh, so you're mad you didn't get the MC spot? Too bad. You can't just show up out of nowhere and take things over, you know. It doesn't work that way, buddy. The job goes to the best man, around here.”

Piper watched with growing concern. If she didn't know better she would have sworn she saw steam begin to rise from Nate's head. The area around the two had cleared as people stepped back but stayed near enough to watch.

“Nate,” Amy said in a low, worried voice, “let it be.”

But Nate, despite a visible struggle, apparently couldn't. “Don't worry, Rosemont, you'll probably always keep your MC spot. But only because you've bullied your way into it. Not because you're any good.”

Rosemont's already florid face turned purple. “Why you little—” he cried, swinging hard at Nate, who easily sidestepped the clumsily thrown right.

“Fight! Fight!” a high-pitched voice pealed from the crowd.

“Nate! No!” Amy cried.

Nate turned toward Amy. Rosemont was bouncing on his feet, both fists raised and ready, but looking somewhat worried—and in his kilt, sagging as it was under a significant paunch, just a bit ridiculous.

Nate glanced from Rosemont back to Amy, then stalked away toward Piper's booth, clearly simmering. “Let's go,” he said to Amy, who grabbed her purse and dashed out from behind the counter. The two took off, and the crowd, disappointed, began to disperse. When Piper looked back, Alan Rosemont was nowhere to be seen.

• • •

“A
grown man making such a scene in public,” Aunt Judy said, shaking her head and bouncing her short white curls. She'd joined Piper at the booth not long after Amy and Nate hurriedly left, holding her dog, Jack, on a leash. Jack, a black-and-white mixed breed, had shown up at their farm several weeks ago, fur matted and emaciated, and had stayed ever since.

“I asked Frank to bring Jack along when he came to the fair,” her aunt explained, looking fondly at the pet, who actually seemed to be smiling back. “I hated to leave him alone all day. We'll take turns looking after him, today.” She leaned down to ruffle Jack's now-shiny fur and pat his plumped-up side. “I know he'll behave because he's such a good dog, aren't you?” Jack wagged his fluffy tail and yipped apparent agreement.

“As far as Alan's concerned,” Aunt Judy said, “I'm sure that losing a sale is annoying. But why broadcast it to the world? And is it really that important who gets to direct a talent show?”

“That part does sound a bit middle school,” Piper agreed, “though for Nate the added income was important. I doubt that was Rosemont's concern, which makes me wonder what's truly behind his anger.” Piper's thoughts flashed to Ben Schaeffer. “He wouldn't have an interest in Amy, would he?”

“Amy's half his age and then some!” Aunt Judy protested, then added, “Not that that always means anything. But no, dear. I don't think so. Alan has been seeing Brenda Franklin fairly steadily. At least where age is concerned, she's more his type.”

“At
least
agewise? Sounds like you have reservations on the rest of that relationship.”

“Well, it's not for me to say, is it? It's just, oh, Alan Rosemont is a man who likes to have his own way. I suppose that's what riled him up about Nate, the fact that anyone would challenge him on anything whatsoever.”

“Amy said he's led the talent show since caveman days.”

Aunt Judy smiled. “Not quite. He's only been here in Cloverdale for—let me see—ten years?”

“That's all?”

“Yes, I'm sure that's right. He took over Bob MacAulay's hardware store space to open his antique shop when Bob decided to close up and retire to Florida. That was ten years ago.”

“He certainly seems to have developed plenty of influence in Cloverdale in that amount of time. I mean, he's got a powerful position on the town council, and he's obviously forged strong connections with the decision makers of the fair.”

“That he has.” Aunt Judy's brows pulled together with concern.

Piper looked off in the direction that Nate had gone with Amy. How badly might it impact that young musician, she wondered, that he had managed to cross someone like Alan Rosemont? But then she shook her head. It was, after all, just one argument between them. In a day or two, everyone involved would forget about their differences and move on.

Or so she hoped.

“W
hy don't you take a break, Piper?” Aunt Judy suggested. “I'll be glad to watch the booth for you; that is, if you trust me to handle it?”

Piper laughed. “Since you're the one who taught me everything I know about pickling, I don't think you'd have any trouble. But if you're sure you don't mind, I'd love to find a quiet place to sit down. Just for a few minutes.”

“Then go. Scoot!” Aunt Judy made sweeping motions with her hands. “Jack can lie here in the shade and people watch. You'll like that, won't you, Jack?” Currently crunching on the dog biscuit Aunt Judy had slipped him, Jack seemed just fine with the arrangement. A thoughtful look crossed Aunt Judy's face. “There's a nice, shady bench behind the youth group's concession stand. You could grab something cool to drink there and relax.”

“Sounds good.”

“Oh, and would you mind giving Will Burchett a message for me while you're there?”

“Sure. Who's Will Burchett?”

“Will bought the Christmas tree farm from the Andersons two years ago. He's running the barbecue grill at the stand today, to help out with the fund-raising. Tell him if he runs low on onions for the barbecue, I threw a couple of bags in the truck. He can just call Frank or me if he needs them.”

“Okay. See you in a bit.”

“Take your time,” her aunt called out as Piper took off in the direction of the food concessions and the youth group stand. She didn't have to search hard, as the aroma of spicy barbecue soon wafted her way, allowing her to follow her nose.

She waited her turn at the counter, watching as a busy group of teens filled orders for hungry fairgoers, looking like they were having a great time while raising money for their organization. They scuttled back and forth between the front counter and a smoke-spewing grill at the rear, manned by someone in a blue T-shirt who Piper assumed was Will Burchett.

When she got her tall cup of lemonade, Piper went around to the back to deliver her aunt's message. She'd been expecting someone about Uncle Frank's age, but the closer she got, the more off the mark she realized she'd been.

“Will Burchett?” she asked of the tall man whose back was to her. The T-shirt topped trim khaki shorts, and the arms wielding the cooking tongs were muscular and tanned. A huge, sauce-stained apron was tied at his back.

“Be right with you,” a baritone voice answered as Burchett flipped two meaty ribs and slathered them with thick red sauce. He set his tongs down and turned around.

Piper gazed up at the bluest eyes she'd ever seen, set into an even-featured face. But what she liked most was the solid, open expression on that face, a kind of what-you-see-is-what-you-get, no-games look. She smiled.

“Judy Lamb asked me to tell you she has plenty of onions on hand, and you can call her or my Uncle Frank whenever you need them.”

“Great! You're their niece?”

Piper held out her hand. “Piper Lamb. I have a pickling booth across that way.”

Burchett grabbed a towel to wipe his hands before shaking hers. “Nice to meet you.” He kept on shaking. “Your aunt mentioned you, and I meant to stop by your shop sometime. But things have been kind of busy at the tree farm.”

“Yes, I can imagine there's a lot to do.” Piper thought she should probably pull her hand back, but it felt really nice enveloped in his large one.

“Mr. Burchett? Two more burgers?”

“Coming up, Shawn.” Burchett released Piper's hand and slapped two beef patties on his grill.

“I'll get out of your way,” Piper said, stepping back reluctantly.

“Ah, right. Sorry. Got to keep up with this. But, hey, thank your aunt for me. And I, ah, I'll stop by at your shop sometime and say hello.”

“That'd be great. Nice meeting you, Will.”

Piper backed away, holding her drink, then remembered the shady bench that was supposed to be nearby. She found it and sat, taking a sip from her lemonade and thinking what a nice guy Will Burchett seemed to be, volunteering his time for a good cause as he was. She hoped he really would come by her shop.

• • •

S
hortly before eight the next morning, Piper was sipping the last of her coffee in the apartment over her shop, when she heard familiar beeps out back. She ran to her bedroom window and threw it open.

“Morning, Uncle Frank!”

“Good morning, peanut.” Uncle Frank had called Piper “peanut” as long as she could remember, and though she'd eventually grown taller than her aunt and stood within an inch or two of her burly uncle, she was happy to still be called that—but only by Uncle Frank. He leaned out of the cab of his freshly washed tan Ford pickup.

“Can I take any more heavy stuff out to the fair for you?”

“Sure! I'll be right down.” Piper dashed down to the shop to unlock her back door, then ran about gathering up jars of the pickled vegetables she'd decided to take—definitely more pickled watermelon—and packing them carefully into divided cardboard boxes. Uncle Frank walked in, pulling off a green John Deere cap and smoothing down the few remaining strands of his gray hair.

“I have to swing by the garage to pick up a tractor part,” he said, “but I'll get these to you by the time the fair opens up.”

“That'll be fine. Oh, I got a call from Mom and Dad last night. They arrived in Bulgaria. Said to give you and Aunt Judy their love.”

“Bulgaria. Well, well.” Uncle Frank gave a low chuckle. “That brother of mine does get around, doesn't he?”

Piper smiled. Although her father and his brother had grown up together and even resembled each other physically, they couldn't have chosen any more widely divergent paths in life. Uncle Frank considered a drive to Albany a major excursion, whereas Piper's father had been twice around the world with his archeological pursuits.

“We both like to dig in the dirt,” Uncle Frank often joked. “Only difference is the things I come up with are a bit fresher and they're edible. But the things he digs up he can write about. I don't know anybody'd want to read about my beets or carrots.”

“Maybe not, but I can't pickle an old candlestick, can I?” Piper would respond.

Uncle Frank's organic farm provided most of the fruits and vegetables that Piper preserved with her pickling spices. And Aunt Judy grew in her garden several of the herbs that Piper dried and either used or packaged for sale. They were the perfect team, as far as Piper was concerned, and she was daily grateful that her Uncle Frank had chosen farming rather than anything he could write about.

“Just these two boxes should do it,” she said. Uncle Frank reached for the larger of the two and headed out. Piper followed close behind with the second, unsurprised—once she stepped out—to see Jack occupying the passenger seat of her uncle's truck. Jack yipped an excited greeting, and as soon as Piper deposited her load in the back of the cab she reached over to rub his ears and receive a few juicy licks.

Uncle Frank climbed into the driver's seat. “Thanks a bunch,” Piper said, giving her uncle a kiss on his leathery cheek. He started his engine and pulled off, a well-tanned arm waving out the window as the truck disappeared around the corner.

As she watched him go, Piper thought of all the summers she'd spent with Aunt Judy and Uncle Frank. Though Piper knew her parents loved her dearly, she had realized long ago—and gamely accepted—that they loved archeology even more. Each summer, therefore, they flew off to far-flung corners of the world to pursue their passion, parts that were usually less than congenial for children, and therefore Piper was sent to Cloverdale. Not that—once Piper fully understood what they were up to—she ever really wanted to go along with them. Her parents had their passion and Piper had hers. It had just taken her longer to discover it.

Was it simply coincidental, she wondered, that Scott, another important person in her life, had discovered he was happiest when he was hundreds of miles away from her? Such thoughts were best pondered on another day, Piper decided, so she shook herself to get moving and on her way.

Minutes later, Piper was locking up when she remembered that Tina Carson had asked her to drop off more of her pear chutney at the coffee shop. Apparently it was a big hit with her customers. Piper ran back into the shop for the jars, thinking she could stop on her way. But when she pulled up in front of Tina's shop, a “Closed” sign hung inside the door, and the shop's interior was dark.

Bummer. Especially since the lettering on the door proclaimed the opening hour to be eight
A.M.
, and it was twenty minutes past that. Piper got out of the car and peered into the shop, hoping to see signs of life. She rapped but spotted no movement in the darkened interior. Tina, she decided, must have seen her business, like A La Carte's, drop off and felt it wasn't worth opening during fair days. Piper would have to get the chutney to her some other time.

As she continued down Beech Street she noticed much lighter traffic than usual. Most of the bigger draws at the fair, such as the midway rides, didn't open until ten, which probably explained it. If the majority of Cloverdale residents had shifted their activities from town to fairgrounds, they apparently had also decided to sleep in a little that day.

When Piper pulled into the vendors' parking area, there was only a scattering of other cars. She had come early to do a bit of tidying and rearranging at her booth, since spreading a protective tarp over her wares the night before was about all she could manage. Piper had also sold out of pickles from her pickle barrel, proving Amy's optimism to be spot-on, so she'd brought a fresh batch of dills to restock it. She lifted up the hatch on her white Chevy to unload them.

“Morning, Miss Lamb.”

Piper looked over to see Ben Schaeffer walking toward her, dressed in khakis and a plaid shirt rather than his auxiliary officer uniform. Piper's first thought was that Ben Schaeffer, who was only three years younger, had just addressed her as if she were his former kindergarten teacher.

“Call me Piper, please,” she said. “You're here early, Ben. Are you on duty?”

He shook his head. “Not officially. But I thought I'd check around. You know, make sure nobody's dumping trash where they shouldn't. Things like that.”

“That's conscientious of you.” Piper reached for one of the large plastic bags of dill pickles.

“Help you with that?”

Piper smiled, resisting the elderly-woman-aided-by-Boy-Scout feeling that Ben seemed to automatically stir. “Thank you,” she said, and handed one of the bags to Ben, then grabbed the second, larger one herself. They took off toward the vendor booths.

“The fair seems to have slowed things down in town,” she said, conversationally. “Have you closed your place? Amy said you have an insurance office.”

“Amy mentioned that?” Ben's eyes lit up and a spot of red appeared on each cheek.

“Well, yes. When I asked her, specifically.” No use getting the man's hopes up.

“Oh.” Ben cleared his throat. “Well, I'll be heading in to the office later on to do some paperwork. But I don't expect new clients to pop in during fair days.”

“No, people's minds are definitely on more fun things right now. Not to imply, well, you know. Insurance, obviously, is serious. Not something you think of when you're in the mood to get away from it all.”

Piper was afraid she may have dug herself into a hole, but all Ben said was, “Right.”

Piper mentally ran over what insurance she already owned, expecting a sales pitch to soon follow, but as they drew closer to the stage where the talent show would take place she was distracted by the condition of the area. Papers were strewn about the stage, chairs were disarranged, and a pot of artificial flowers lay tipped over, its papery roots half out of the container.

“Look at that!” Ben cried, disgusted. “Did they have to leave things in such a mess after rehearsals?”

“I thought Aunt Judy said rehearsals were held at the high school,” Piper said. Then she saw something up ahead that drove thoughts of rehearsals out of her head. “Something's wrong,” she said, quickening her pace.

“You're darned right something's wrong. When people can't take the trouble to pick up after themselves—”

“No, I mean something's wrong at my booth.” Piper had seen what looked like the lid of her pickle barrel standing upright, though from the distance she couldn't be sure. She took off at a run, struggling to hold on to the bag of pickles that bounced and slipped in her arms. She was sure she'd firmly clamped down her barrel lid the night before. After seeing the disarray around the stage, her fear was that vandals had been at work. What would she find at her booth?

She approached her booth from the rear but was able to see her pickle barrel, which stood to the side of the shelves of jars and spices. Her green tarp was still in place over those items, but the barrel lid was definitely up. Piper stopped, suddenly afraid to see what might have happened to her precious container. Trash dumped into it? Worse?

Ben caught up with her and paused, following her gaze. He continued a few steps more. Piper watched his face as he made his way to the front of the barrel. His mouth worked soundlessly, then she heard, “Good God.”

“What?” Piper lurched forward to see for herself.

Two legs, partly covered in tasseled socks and barely edged with a tartan kilt, hung over the rim of her pickle barrel—the same kilt and socks she remembered seeing the day before on Alan Rosemont. The legs were attached to a torso about Rosemont's size that was pitched forward into the barrel, deep into Piper's pickling brine. A bagpipe lay on the ground nearby, deflated and looking as dead as the body in the barrel.

Ben Schaeffer fumbled for his cell phone, clearing his voice several times as he pressed its buttons. “Sheriff? Schaeffer, here. I'm at the fair. We have, uh, a situation, here. I think it may be a homicide.”