The Pickled Piper (5 page)

Well
, Piper thought, looking after Lyella's watchful neighbor.
What do I do with that?

P
iper left the library—with one checked-out cookbook in hand—and paused for a moment outside to think. A tan pickup pulled over near her.

“Lost your way, little girl?”

“Uncle Frank!” Piper poked her head into the open passenger window, leaning one arm on the edge. “If I had, I'm not sure you'd be the one to ask for directions.”

Uncle Frank chuckled. “You met Lyella.”

“Yes, I certainly did. I think I can safely cross her off my list, don't you?”

“Detective work not as easy as it looks on TV? Maybe you should stick to pickling and just let the sheriff do his job. What do you think, peanut?”

“I won't get in Sheriff Carlyle's way. I hope he finds whoever killed Alan Rosemont. Who really killed Rosemont, not just who's conveniently handy.”

“Well, now, that's not fair. George Carlyle's an honest man.”

“You're right. I take that back. But I'd hate to think that some things might be overlooked if the sheriff—and those around him—rushed to judgment. I just want to check out what might be the forgotten fringes of the situation.” She paused. “Do you know Lyella Pfiefle's husband?”

“Gordon Pfiefle, the fellow who manages the supermarket? What, is he the next suspect on your list?”

From the crinkles around Uncle Frank's eyes, Piper assumed Gordon Pfiefle was just as unlikely a suspect as Lyella had turned out to be. She shrugged. “I just wondered what he did, since Lyella happened to mention they always turn in early.”

“Well, I suppose he might have early hours at the market. I wouldn't know. Want a lift to your place? I'm just heading back from the fairgrounds and have a few things to drop off at Bill Vanderveen's down the way, there,” he said, gesturing toward Third Street.

“No, go ahead.” Piper knew her uncle would want to stay and visit with his friend for a while instead of hustling her on home. “I feel like a walk. But give Bill my best.” She pulled her head out of his truck and waved him off.

As she strolled toward Beech Street, Piper thought about what Martha Smidley had hinted to her. She seemed to have a grudge against Lyella and might also have something against Gordon that could color her opinion. Perhaps he hadn't shoveled her snow-covered walk when she needed it, or an oversight similarly unforgivable in her eyes?

Was Gordon worth checking out? Piper at least knew where to find him, thanks to Uncle Frank—assuming he wasn't putting her on again. The supermarket, Piper knew, wasn't that much out of her way. She could always use a few fresh items for her kitchen, and once she reopened her shop the next day her time would be limited. Having thoroughly talked herself into it, she turned right at Beech instead of left and headed for TopValuFood, Cloverdale's largest food market.

• • •

P
iper strolled about the supermarket, a bright yellow basket slung over one arm, wondering just how she should approach this. It was one thing to walk in at the library and question Lyella Pfiefle. However, if Lyella's husband, Gordon, informed her that Piper had shown up at his market and done the same with him, she'd get a tad suspicious. If they had nothing to hide, of course, the worst that would come from it was an icy glare the next time Piper visited the library. If they did have something to hide, though, such as murder—well, that's what kept Piper wandering through the produce section uncertainly.

After about ten minutes of sniffing melons and pinching grapes, she heard a voice on the public address system say, “Manager to register number three, please.” Piper's head snapped up. She plopped a bag of seedless reds into her basket and scurried toward checkout number three.

Checker three stood motionless at her register, gazing expectantly over the heads of those in her line. Soon, a man in a white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows came barreling toward her, an expression of “eager to help” on his broad face. Whether or not it was genuine or pasted on for the public, Piper could only guess.

“Mr. Pfiefle,” the checker said, “Mrs. Diehl has a question about the price coming up on this bag of cat litter.”

Piper picked up a copy of one of the tabloids from a nearby rack and pretended fascination with its latest alien-baby headline but flicked her gaze between the newspaper and the burly manager.

Close to six feet tall, Gordon Pfiefle had the broad shoulders, biceps, and chest of a weight lifter. He clearly would have no problem lifting Alan Rosemont into Piper's pickle barrel once he had knocked him dead. Interestingly, Piper noticed red scratches on Pfiefle's neck, visible at the open collar of his shirt, and at least one near his ear. A struggle with Rosemont before killing him? Was that white shirt possibly hiding bruises?

Don't jump to conclusions
, Piper warned herself, which was exactly what she didn't want Sheriff Carlyle to do. First she needed to establish if Pfiefle had the opportunity. She had at least the hint of a motive for him, if Martha Smidley was to be believed.

Gordon Pfiefle settled the price problem with Mrs. Diehl—to the woman's satisfaction, judging by her pleased smile—and left the checkout area. He stopped to chat briefly with another customer, then walked on. Piper followed at what she hoped was a discreet distance.

A clerk stood partway up one aisle, stacking cans in rows, and as she added a final one the entire lineup toppled. The clerk—a young girl—cried out in dismay, and nearby customers jumped out of the way. Pfiefle hurried over and caught a few cans rolling his way, then helped the clerk scramble after the rest. Piper listened to him advise the girl to stack the cans in the sturdier pyramid formation, demonstrating. He then moved on, waving off the clerk's grateful thanks. Piper waited until he'd disappeared around the corner before sidling up to the young woman.

“Guess you lucked out, there, huh?”

The girl grinned. “I could have really been chewed out, right? But I've never seen Mr. Pfiefle get really mad at anyone. I've only been here a few weeks, though.” She tapped lightly at her stacked cans. “Guess I'd better not press my luck.”

Piper picked up an overlooked can of green beans and handed it to the girl. “He seems very conscientious. Probably gets here at the crack of dawn, I'll bet.”

The girl wrinkled her nose, melding together the freckles that were dotted across it. “I don't think so. I've seen him mostly come in around eight thirty. Patty Wright opens up for us at seven.”

“Eight thirty's not bad,” Piper said, nodding, “unless of course he stays till closing time. I've known managers who get pretty obsessive about their stores.”

“No, that's not Mr. Pfiefle.” The girl smiled. “He says the sign of a good manager is training good employees, and if he can't trust them to do their job, he hasn't done his job.” She quoted Gordon Pfiefle with obvious admiration. Keeping in mind that the girl had only been employed there a few weeks, Pfiefle sounded like an ideal boss and possibly a very nice man.

Should Piper cross him off her list of suspects? She shook her head. There were still those scratches to be explained. Plus, if he wasn't working late that night, his only alibi so far came from his wife, Lyella, who could safely be assumed to be biased. Piper also hadn't yet spoken with the man. But she preferred to do that away from his workplace where his public face would always be on. Piper wanted to make sure she saw the real Gordon Pfiefle.

• • •

O
n her walk back to her shop, Piper spotted Charlotte's Chocolates and Confections up ahead. An encounter with Charlotte once every few days, she felt, was more than enough, so she crossed the street. As she did so, Piper noticed the interior of Tina Carson's coffee shop was lit and open for business. The delicious aromas of coffee and cooked bacon wafted her way, reminding her that she hadn't had a decent lunch and drawing her toward the cozy, plaid-curtained shop. She went in.

“Hi, Piper,” Tina called from the other side of the counter where she set down a plate for a customer. “How's it goin'?”

“Not too bad.” Piper slid onto a stool. “Feeling better?”

“Lots,” Tina said. “All I needed was to get out of that sun. Even my headache's gone.”

Piper smiled, though the dark shadows still under Tina's eyes hinted at possible lingering symptoms.

“Get you something?” Tina asked.

Piper ordered iced tea and a BLT on toasted wheat, and Tina turned to the work counter behind her to assemble it.

“Some doings at the fair, yesterday,” the lanky, ponytailed man sitting two stools down from Piper said.

“That's all everyone's been talking about today,” Tina said as she dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. She glanced back at Piper. “A shame it happened at your booth.”

“Oh, it was your pickle barrel?” the man said, studying Piper with interest. His work boots and stained denims seemed a tad out of place at Tina's shop, whose clientele tended to be more tidily dressed. But Piper was less put off by his attire than by the uncomfortable vibes she was getting from him with his roving gaze.

“Yes,” she answered, not inclined to elaborate.

“Bummer,” the man said, though his weak attempt at sympathy vanished as a grin slowly spread over his face. “What a way to go, eh? In a barrel of pickles. Alan Rosemont—Pinky—was pickled pink!” He laughed heartily at his own joke, then started coughing as the laugh turned into a choke.

Piper looked uneasily at Tina, but apparently she'd gotten used to the fact of Rosemont's murder since her episode of the day before. When the man's coughs gradually died down, Tina said, “Take it easy, Dennis. Do one thing at a time. Eat or talk.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “One thing at a time.” He coughed again, then cleared his throat. “Hey, I think I'll take the rest of this with me,” he said, looking down at his plate. “Got something I can wrap it in?”

Tina handed him a sheet of waxed paper, and he rolled the remaining half of his sandwich in it before standing up. “I'll see you around.”

“Okay, Dennis,” Tina said. “Thanks again for coming over.”

After he left, Tina explained to Piper, “That's Dennis Isley. He does odd jobs around town, and I had to call him in to fix a pipe in the back that sprang a leak.” She rolled her eyes. “Just what I needed to bring on another headache, huh? Anyway, I promised I'd fix him something to eat afterward if he came right away.” She slid a plate with a thickly layered BLT and a generous side of potato chips on it across the counter, then poured out Piper's iced tea.

“Thanks,” Piper said.

“Dennis did a fair amount of work for Alan Rosemont,” Tina said, “but he didn't like him much.”

Join the crowd
, Piper thought as she bit into her sandwich.

Tina picked up a mug of coffee and took a sip, leaning back against her work counter. “Alan hired Dennis to paint the library that awful color. Have you seen it?” When Piper nodded, her mouth full, Tina added, “From what I heard, Dennis was the only one he could get to do the job in a hurry when he heard Lyella Pfiefle was out of town. But even though he wanted a rush job, Alan still hassled Dennis afterward about sloppiness and tried to whittle the payment down. That's one reason Dennis obviously wasn't too broken up over Alan's death. I mean, with that ‘pickled pink' comment.” A grin started spreading across Tina's face until she bit her lip. “I shouldn't laugh.”

Piper couldn't help a snuffle herself, though she worked to control it. Besides being wildly inappropriate, considering the man had been murdered, she definitely didn't want to have a choking fit like Dennis Isley's.

“I was just talking to Lyella at the library,” Piper said, after a sip of her iced tea. “She's still pretty angry over what Alan did.”

“Yeah, well, who wouldn't be?”

“You don't happen to know her husband, Gordon, do you? He manages the TopValuFood market?”

Tina shook her head.

Piper paused. Tina had always struck her as a sensible, genuine people person, which had helped make her coffee shop a popular place in a short time. She'd listened to the older woman's tales of the endless, obscure food service regulations that Alan Rosemont had come up with and the countless hoops he'd forced her to jump through to get her license. Tina had persevered, though, with minimal complaints and was on her way to becoming a Cloverdale casual dining tradition. It was this daily access to town gossip and Tina's ability to put people at ease that interested Piper.

“I'd like to explain why I'm interested in the Pfiefles, if you'll keep it to yourself.”

Tina set her coffee mug down. “Absolutely.”

“I know Sheriff Carlyle will work hard at finding Alan Rosemont's murderer.”

Tina's head bobbed. “It must have been a mugging, right? I figure maybe somebody from out of town who thought they'd have easy pickings at our fair.”

“The sheriff doesn't seem to think so. Dumping Rosemont into the pickle barrel looks more like someone making a personal statement. He's been questioning Nate Purdy.”

“What!” Tina's jaw dropped in horror. “I can't believe it!”

“There've been no charges, yet. But Nate is worried enough to talk to a lawyer.”

“But that's preposterous. I've heard Nate perform at A La Carte. Lovely, gentle songs. You can't tell me anyone who can sing like that is capable of murder.”

If only it were that simple
, Piper thought, but aloud she said, “Nate's a great guy who finds himself in a tough situation and with only a few supporters. I want to help him out by digging up anything that will legitimately shift Sheriff Carlyle's focus to someone else.”

“Oh my, Nate! Such a sweet guy. I couldn't stand to see him falsely accused. You can add me to that list of supporters, Piper. Just let me know what I can do to help.”