Scene of the Brine (17 page)

“You're related?”

“Abso-posi-lutely! I'm Lydia's sister. Gwen Smyth.” She held out her hand and Piper shook it, offering her own name. “I went back to Smyth,” the woman said. “It's spelled with a
Y
, by the way. Trips people up all the time, but it was better than my last husband's name, and the one before that—Russian, and loaded with
C
s and
Z
s. Never could remember how to spell it.” She grinned, and Piper smiled back, though still grappling with Ms. Smyth-with-a-
Y
's statement of being Lydia's sister.

“Is Lydia expecting you or is this a surprise?”

“Oh, I thought I'd just drop in and surprise them all. Heard Jeremy bought this nice, big house and that Lydia and Mallory moved in with him. Now he'll have his sister, his mother, and his aunt!”

Piper smiled again, this time a little wider as Gwen merrily sang a few bars of the familiar Gilbert and Sullivan tune with those words, her fingers waving in time to the ditty. Piper reached for a slip of paper and started scribbling. “Here's their address,” she said, remembering it well from Lydia's tea. “And I wrote down a few directions. It's not hard to find.”

Gwen glanced at the paper. “Thanks! I knew I picked the right shop to stop in and ask. Of course, that door of yours was truly beckoning to me.”

I'll bet it did
, Piper thought as another whiff of alcohol drifted her way. “Say hi to Lydia for me.”

“Will do! Maybe we can all get together sometime,” Gwen said as she headed for the door.

That would be very interesting,
Piper thought as she waved good-bye.

“Who was that?” Lorena Hicks asked, entering as Gwen Smyth left.

“Lydia Porter's sister,” Piper informed her. Lorena's brown eyes grew wide.

. . .

L
ater that day, Piper was waiting on an elderly gentleman who had stopped in to buy a large jar of bread-and-butters, when Emma Leahy walked in, her posture stiff and her face tense. Something was definitely up and Piper hurried through the sale to her customer—a kindly sort who didn't seem to mind being hustled along—to learn what was bothering Emma. As the man shuffled out, Emma hurried forward.

“Bad news,” she said. “Joan Tilley's in the hospital. She's critically ill.

“Oh! I'm so sorry to hear that. What's wrong?”

Clearly struggling with her emotions, Emma took a moment to answer. “It was very sudden. Luckily her neighbor came by and called the ambulance.” She swallowed. “She had the same symptoms as Dirk Unger.”

“No!” Piper cried. “Mrs. Tilley? How could that be? And why?”

“I don't know. It doesn't make any sense at all. But there's something else you should know.”

Emma paused, the strain of worry for her friend making her suddenly gulp. When she regained control, she said, “It might have been your cherries. She'd been eating from a jar of your brandied cherries.”

Piper gasped, not knowing which was worse to hear—the illness or the cause. She stared, speechless for several moments. “I can't believe it! How . . . ?”

Emma shook her head, having no answer to Piper's unfinished question. “I have to go,” she said. “I just wanted you to know.” She turned and hurried out.

A flood of questions filled Piper's head as she stared in dismay after her disappearing friend.

Her cherries? It couldn't possibly be!
The thought made her physically ill—though not, she was sure, as ill as poor Mrs. Tilley.

21

S
orry to have to do this.” Sheriff Carlyle added one more jar of Piper's brandied cherries to the several he'd already boxed up. He'd arrived the next morning with the news that Mrs. Tilley was alive, though still in serious condition, and had confirmed that bloodroot was indeed found in her jar of brandied cherries.

“But it couldn't have been added during my cooking process,” Piper protested. She'd studied up on bloodroot during her mostly sleepless night. “First of all, no way would it be put there by me or,” she added significantly, “by your daughter. But besides that, bloodroot, I've learned, becomes harmless at high heat. It's only poisonous when it's eaten fresh.”

The sheriff nodded. “I'm aware of that. Dirk Unger's was in his salad. A lot of it, and it was fresh. We're assuming his spicy Italian salad dressing smothered any taste. The bloodroot in Joan Tilley's jar hadn't been cooked. It clearly had been added at some point afterward.”

“But . . .” Piper sputtered.

“I'm not necessarily blaming you,” he said, and Piper didn't much care for the
necessarily
. “Anyone could have slipped it into one of these jars after you'd finished with them. I don't see any safety seals on them.”

“The lids are vacuum sealed to the jars as they cool. They become tight enough to actually lift the jar by the lid. Sheriff, if my jars had been opened, that vacuum would have been broken. Any knowledgeable person would notice that.”

“You would hope so,” the sheriff said. “It's been my experience that not everyone pays attention to things that they should. Now, tell me who has bought your brandied cherries.”

Piper groaned. “I've had them in stock since last June. I can't possibly track down all the sales.”

“All right, let's start with yesterday's sales and work backward.”

At that point, and to Piper's relief, Amy walked in. “Daddy! What are you doing?”

“Sugarplum . . .” the sheriff began gently, but Amy was having none of it.

“I heard about Mrs. Tilley,” she said. “You can't seriously think she got sick from Piper's cherries!”

“Bloodroot was in her jar of brandied cherries,” Piper said. “Your father can't take the chance it might be in any more jars.”

“But—”

“Amy,” the sheriff said, “help Piper remember who bought any of these cherries lately. It's important.”

“Oh gosh!” Amy sank onto one Piper's stools. “You sold a bunch of them yesterday before I showed up,” she said to Piper, who agreed.

Piper ticked off several names, which Sheriff Carlyle wrote down. “Sugar Heywood bought lots of it lately,” she said, which made the sheriff look up sharply. “But they were for Jeremy Porter's dinner of several days ago. Nobody got sick that I know of. And Lydia Porter picked up a jar. She said Mallory loved it, so probably that was okay.”

The sheriff nodded but made a note of it. “Anyone else?”

“I'll go through my sales slips. But that'll take time.” Piper had a thought. “Couldn't someone have simply walked off with a jar, then slipped it back on my shelf after doctoring it?”

“Yes!” Amy cried, jumping up from her stool. “The shop has been super busy lately. Piper and I couldn't possibly have kept an eye on everyone. Then there's your party, Piper. Think of all the people who came and milled around.”

A look of pain flashed onto the sheriff's face. “That's a possibility,” he admitted. “All the same, please get back to me with your sales records.”

“I will,” Piper promised, feeling that at least some pressure had come off her, personally. At the same time she sympathized with the enormous job the sheriff faced.

He carried off her boxed-up jars without further discussion, and Amy turned to Piper after he'd left. “Does this eliminate Zach, since he hasn't been around?”

Piper thought about that. “Probably not. It could be argued that Zach had access to one of Sugar's jars of cherries and could have slipped it back onto my shelf anytime he was here.”

“But it wouldn't make sense—unless he's suddenly turned into a psycho killer. There'd be no way he could know who would get that jar. Dirk Unger's food was poisoned to murder him, and only him. Putting bloodroot in one of your preserves would be a totally random murder.”

“I know, and that could apply to whoever did it. I can't understand it myself.”

. . .

A
s the day moved on, Piper began to understand the poisoner's intention.

“Business is so slow!” Amy said, having waited on only one person, and that occurring early in her shift.

“I've noticed,” Piper said, turning to her ringing phone.

“Piper, dear,” Aunt Judy said as soon as Piper picked up. “I've been hearing very upsetting things!” She went on to first say that she'd visited Joan Tilley at the hospital and had been dismayed at how wasted she'd appeared. “Joan could barely speak,” Aunt Judy said. “They came terribly close to losing her! But I've been assured she's turned the corner, and that is very comforting. But Piper, dear, the talk is that it was from something in the brandied cherries from your shop. How could that be?”

“I'm afraid that's true,” Piper said. She told her aunt about the sheriff's visit and that they'd agreed that bloodroot must have been added after Piper's cooking process. “He wants me to track down everyone who bought my cherries. I've been able to make a dent in that with business being very slow.”

“That's why I called,” Aunt Judy said. “Word is spreading about the source of Joan's illness, and people are throwing out anything they bought at your shop. Even the packaged spices. They're afraid to buy anything more from you. Piper,” she said, her voice breaking, “your business could be ruined!”

. . .

T
hat's so unfair!” Amy cried, when Piper shared Aunt Judy's statement.

“Agreed,” Piper said grimly, feeling as though she'd been punched. “But honestly, wouldn't you feel the same if you didn't know me?”

Piper could see Amy badly wanting to deny that, but she slowly and reluctantly nodded. “I'd probably think why take a chance? If I didn't know you like I do, that is.”

“And how many people do?” Piper asked. “Who sees how carefully you and I work back there to follow all safety precautions? The problem is, once the jars are on the shelves or bought, they're out of our hands.”

“But you offer so much more than your homemade pickles and preserves. There's the spices you order from around the world, and—”

“—and my pickling equipment—the jars and lids, canners, tongs, crocks. Totally safe, right? But don't you see? My shop's reputation has been tainted. Everything in it has become suspect.”

“I heard,” Gil Williams said, walking in from his shop next door and looking somber. “I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Piper said with a weak smile. “I'd definitely like to know whose fault it is.”

“The person who murdered Dirk Unger doesn't want you to get any closer to finding them out.”

“I didn't feel close at all,” Piper protested.

“Someone,” Gil said, “apparently feared that you were. Your only way to fix this is to unmask them. This town needs to know who has been spreading poison around. Once it does, it can go back to normal life, and that includes patronizing your shop and buying your wares.”

“You make it sound so simple!” Amy said, appearing on the verge of tears.

Piper rubbed Amy's arm soothingly. “It isn't, of course. But on the bright side, I now have much more time to work on the problem.”

“You mean . . .”

Piper nodded. “I might as well close up shop. Don't you agree?” she asked, looking at Gil. To her surprise, he shook his head.

“Don't do it. It would be taken as an admission of guilt. You had nothing to do with Joan Tilley's poisoning. Another person somehow tampered with your wares. Show the town that you're mad as hell and won't put up with such atrocities.”

“Right!” Amy cried, swallowing her tears and pumping a fist. “Show them!”

Piper looked from one to the other. “You're absolutely right, Gil. No way should I act as though I'm ashamed and hiding. I
am
mad. And if anyone happens to wander by, I'll tell them.”

“They will, come by, that is. Little by little. Wait and see.”

Piper hoped Gil was right, but either way she'd made her decision. She was going to fight back against the person guilty of these awful poisonings. “Actually, I don't think I want to sit and hope someone drops by. Amy, I think you can manage to hold down the super quiet fort. I'm going to go out to get my message across. And I'll start by visiting Mrs. Tilley.”

“Good idea,” Gil said.

“Yes!” Amy said. “And give her my best. She's such a sweet lady.”

“Give her mine, too,” Gil said, and Piper promised, not adding that she hoped she wouldn't be barred from approaching Mrs. Tilley. Piper grabbed her jacket and slipped her hands through the sleeves with crossed fingers—not the strongest way, she realized, to start off on a mission.

. . .

P
iper walked down the hallway of the Bellingham Regional Hospital, having learned Mrs. Tilley's room number from the volunteer at the front desk. The good news was Mrs. Tilley was not in intensive care. The bad news, at least for Piper, was that many of the woman's friends had gathered in support, and a large group of them stood directly ahead.

As she drew nearer, Piper saw heads turn and whispers shared. This would be a trial by fire, and she was determined to project the innocence that was rightly hers of having had any part in Mrs. Tilley's situation. A few of the well-wishers began to back away, their gazes aimed everywhere but at Piper, though she caught one or two glances before they flicked away. She was beginning to grow desperate when Emma Leahy suddenly broke through the ranks.

“Piper! I'm glad you could come. Joan will be so happy to see you.” She enveloped Piper in a hug, and Piper saw, over Emma's shoulder, some of the uncertainty of the others begin to fade.

“How is she?” Piper asked.

Emma's face was serious. “Still pretty bad but, I think, improving. She's gone through a lot.”

“I can imagine. I was horrified that something like this could happen to her. And nearly as horrified to learn where the poison came from.”

“We all were. Whoever did this is truly evil, and I'm so sorry that person involved you.”

At that, Lorena Hicks stepped forward. “I'm sorry, too, Piper,” she said, taking Piper's hand. “We know you had nothing whatsoever to do with it.”

Piper saw a few heads nodding and heard murmurs of agreement, though they were subdued. It was encouraging for her, personally, though she knew it still meant her shop's wares remained untrustworthy.

“Come say hello to Joan,” Emma said, drawing her toward the door. “We've been taking turns, not wanting to tax her.”