The Pickled Piper (21 page)

A
unt Judy and Uncle Frank left at Piper's urging, though they were both obviously torn between wanting to stay and keep watch over Piper and carrying her back with them to the farm where they could protect her.

“I'll be fine,” Piper assured the two as she eased them out. “I'll double-lock my doors, check all my windows, and promise to stay inside until the light of day.”
Unless another fire breaks out
, she thought but kept to herself. When she heard Uncle Frank's truck and Aunt Judy's Explorer start up then fade away, Piper opened her laptop and clicked it on. Though she'd implied she would immediately fall into bed—and heaven knew she was exhausted enough—there was something she needed to do to settle a niggling thought at the back of her mind.

Timing. The timing of Piper's arrival at Brenda Franklin's had made a huge difference. Timing, as the saying goes—and it was so true—was everything. But there was another instance where, looking back, the timing hadn't been quite right. She didn't realize it when it happened, what with all the stress and distraction going on at the moment. But now the particular incident took on much greater importance. Or seemed to. She could be totally wrong about what it meant. But if she could find anything that backed up her suspicion, the sheriff would be very interested.

Piper typed Alan Rosemont's name into her search engine. It had sounded like a good idea when Tina offered to handle the chore of checking out Alan's background. The investigation and the mounting vandalisms had been stretching Piper thin. It was time, however, to take that job over.

Unfortunately, Alan Rosemont's name was not an unusual one. Several thousand results popped up, including Facebook pages that were obviously not his. How many “friends” would Alan have had, Piper wondered, if he'd actually set up a page? Piper sighed at the enormous sifting job ahead of her and went to her kitchen for coffee. The tea she'd drunk a few minutes ago wasn't going to do it for her.

Back at her laptop, Piper clicked through website after website—some having Rosemont's full name, some only “Rosemont” or “Alan.” Car dealerships, dental offices, high school reunions. She checked them all on the chance there would be a real connection to the right Rosemont. She found newspaper articles mentioning Alan Rosemont but only in connection with his town council work. Most articles appeared in the
Cloverdale Chronicle
, but a few made it into Poughkeepsie and Rochester newspapers. None were particularly useful.

After a couple of hours, the tedium on top of the fatigue Piper had started with was beginning to take its toll. What were the chances she'd find anything the sheriff or his staff had overlooked? But perhaps she'd been working from the wrong angle? One that the sheriff surely wouldn't have considered? Piper typed in a new name and moaned as a matching high number of results popped up. Where to start? At the beginning, she sensibly answered herself and began clicking. Within a few minutes, though, she realized she was reading words but her foggy brain wasn't translating them into anything that made sense. Perhaps if she just closed her eyes for a few minutes?

Piper laid her head on her arms and was aware of thick blackness quickly descending. In seconds she was dead to the world. However long she slept, she woke suddenly to the sound of loud cracking noises from outside. Gunshots! She waited, tense, then heard them again, this time farther away and accompanied by faint laughter. She relaxed. Teenagers with firecrackers, by the sound of it, and out much too late.

Though they'd caused her heart rate to triple, she didn't begrudge them their fun. Without their noise who knows how long she might have slept? She stretched stiffly out of her awkward position, padded to the bathroom to splash water on her face, then veered over to the kitchen for a shot of orange juice. All helped chase some of the grogginess out of her brain. She hoped a large mug of strong coffee would take care of the rest, and popped the mug into her microwave to heat before heading back to her work.

Piper returned to the search engine results she'd pulled up earlier and began clicking once again. Alan Rosemont's name had yielded nothing, but Piper had higher hopes with her new search. She clicked and read, clicked and moved on, site after site, stopping only to stretch occasionally to keep herself alert. As the night hours slipped by, the sun slowly peeked through her windows, brightening her living room until the lamp she'd had on became unnecessary.

The clock inched closer toward opening time for the shop, but Piper's focus remained on the job in front of her: closing in on a murderer. She was getting there; she knew it. She could almost taste it. Maybe the next website. Or the next newspaper story. One link led to another in a seemingly endless trail, but she was sure she'd find her pot of gold before much longer.

Then she opened a website page that was filled with photos, pictures of well-dressed people at fund-raising dinners that spanned over twenty years. These events had apparently supported an athletic complex in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Piper scanned the photos carefully, stopping finally at one. She stared, not quite believing what she was seeing. But the more she studied the photo, the clearer it became. Even though she'd never been sure exactly what she was looking for, she was convinced she'd finally found it.

Piper leaned back, still gazing at the screen, feeling at first triumph but changing soon to sadness. But, she told herself, at least it was over. The murders would end.

After sitting immobile for several moments, wrapping her head around the significance of what she'd found, Piper shook herself. It was time to get moving. She printed out the photo and the accompanying article, which she would take to Sheriff Carlyle immediately. A glance down at her disheveled self changed “immediately” to “very soon.” No use frightening the populace, but she could tidy up in a flash. And a little food might also be a good thing.

Piper grabbed a bagel in her kitchen, not caring that it was three days old, and ate as she pulled out fresh clothes.
What was proper attire for presenting evidence of guilt?
she wondered, then grabbed whatever looked clean. She hopped into her shower and scrubbed, dried, and dressed. Somewhat refreshed, though still feeling on the edge of exhaustion, she slipped her printed material into a nine-by-twelve envelope and grabbed her purse and keys.

As Piper stepped out of her front door and headed to her car, her thoughts were on what she would say to Sheriff Carlyle when she found him. It took a moment, therefore, for her to notice she wouldn't have far to go. There, parked in front of Gil Williams's bookstore, sat the sheriff's patrol car.

P
iper's first concern when she saw the sheriff's car in front of the bookstore was for Nate. Was he in for another grilling? If so, she was holding the perfect antidote. She hurried on over.

“Sheriff Carlyle,” Piper said as she pushed into the bookshop. “You can forget about Nate!”

The sheriff, who had been conversing with Gil Williams at his front counter, looked over, eyebrows raised.

“Would you like to explain that, Miss Lamb?”

“I mean you can stop questioning Nate because Nate didn't murder anyone. I know who did.”

The sheriff looked as skeptical as he had when Piper first mentioned her suspicions about Gordon Pfiefle to him. She didn't blame him, since she'd been wrong—so wrong—about Gordon. And, of course, Lyella.

“It came to me when I thought about how important timing is. It really has to make sense, doesn't it?”

The sheriff nodded cautiously. Gil was looking at Piper as though he hoped she would start to make sense very soon.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm babbling, I know. It's because I've been up all night looking for this.” She held up the envelope containing her printouts. “When I realized how close I came to being set up for murder, dodging it only because I showed up at Brenda Franklin's two hours later than planned, I started thinking back to something that had bothered me before but I'd shrugged it off.”

“And what was that?” Gil asked

“Tina fainted at the wrong time.”

The two men stared at Piper, the unspoken “huh?” hanging in the air.

“At the fair,” Piper explained. “After I found Alan's body in my pickle barrel. The crime scene crew had cordoned off the area around my booth, and crowds of people gathered around to stare. Tina pushed through to ask what had happened. When I told her that Alan Rosemont had been murdered, she looked shocked, but no more so than anyone else. But when a bystander told her that Alan's body had been found in my pickle barrel, Tina turned white and fainted!”

Piper looked with frustration at the two. “Don't you see? The timing was all wrong! Tina didn't faint when she heard about the murder. She fainted when she heard where the body was found. Because she didn't leave it there. Tina must have murdered Alan in another spot, and someone moved his body into the pickle barrel after she left.”

“Someone like Dennis Isley?” Gil offered. The sheriff looked sharply at him but didn't say anything.

“Very possibly,” Piper said. “But if the timing of Tina's reaction isn't enough for you, Sheriff, look at what I found on the Internet.” Piper pulled out the photo. “Tina claimed never to have met Alan until she moved to Cloverdale. She acted puzzled over why he gave her such a hard time about setting up her coffee shop. When she offered to do a background search on him for me, she definitely implied that she knew nothing about him to begin with. But here she is on his arm at a charity dinner. They're both nineteen years younger, but still very recognizable.”

The sheriff took the photo and studied it, then read the printed material Piper handed him. He looked at Piper through his bushy brows, which were tightly knit at the moment.

“Tina Carson is the reason I'm here this morning,” he said. “She called to tell me she'd seen Nate breaking into Dennis Isley's truck the day before Dennis died, but that she'd struggled with saying anything that would get him into more trouble. Brenda Franklin's murder, she said, convinced her she shouldn't hold back such information, and that I might want to search Nate's premises in case there was incriminating evidence that would—as she put it—end this madness.”

“Oh dear,” Gil said. “Nate told me that Tina was here the other day when I was out. She had him searching fruitlessly through my back room stock for a book she claimed she'd ordered. She could easily have slipped up to his apartment and planted something while Nate was busy back there.”

“I don't have a search warrant that would allow me to run up there and take a look,” the sheriff said. “Thought I'd talk to the boy first and see if this claim held any water. It sounded fairly dicey to me.”

Piper was surprised but pleased to hear that. “Where is Nate now?” she asked.

“I worried that he didn't seem to be eating in the morning,” Gil said, his expression concerned. “So I said I'd buy him breakfast if he'd bring back a Danish for me. I sent him to Tina's.”

The sheriff met Piper's eyes. “I think it would be a good idea,” he said, “to get on over there.”

• • •

T
he early-morning breakfast rush had apparently ended as Piper and Sheriff Carlyle arrived at Tina's coffee shop. Through the window, Piper could see Nate sitting alone at the counter. Tina was clearing a table of dirty dishes nearby, and the rest of the shop appeared empty.
Good
, Piper thought. The sheriff demonstrated the same preference for privacy as they walked in by flipping the “Closed” sign on Tina's door outward.

“Miss Carson,” he said, nodding to her and then to Nate, who'd turned around in some surprise. “We need to have a little chat.”

Tina looked at the sheriff, then at Piper, an expression of apologetic concern crossing her face. “I'm sorry, Piper. I had to tell the truth of what I saw. Believe me, it broke my heart. But I'm afraid we were wrong about Nate.”

“Were we?” Piper asked.

“What? What are you talking about?” Nate slid off his counter seat to face the three.

“I'm sorry for you, too, Nate,” Tina said. “But not as sorry as I was for poor Brenda Franklin. I couldn't deny what you were anymore.” Tina had moved behind the counter with her tray of dirty dishes where she set them down. “Not after you killed Brenda.”

“I didn't kill anybody! Sheriff, I don't know why she's saying that. It's not true!”

The sheriff raised his hand in a calming gesture, and Piper shook her head silently at Nate, wanting to say more but willing to let the sheriff take the lead.

“Miss Carson,” the sheriff said, “you said you saw Mr. Purdy break into Dennis Isley's truck?”

“I did,” Tina said solemnly.

“So, the item we found in Mr. Purdy's apartment came from Dennis Isley's glove compartment?”

“I never—” Nate began, but was again cut off by the sheriff with a swift gesture. Piper, who knew the sheriff had never set foot into Nate's apartment, thought she knew where he was heading.

“I'm afraid so,” Tina said.

“That's pretty incriminating, son,” the sheriff said to Nate, who'd given up protesting, seeming to realize, as his eyes darted from face to face, that something was going on that would be best served by his silence.

“I'm sorry, Nate,” Tina said. “I wish it weren't so. But photos don't lie, do they, Sheriff?”

“No, they generally don't, Miss Carson. Unfortunately, people do.”

Tina nodded and shook her head sadly.

“I'm curious, Miss Carson,” the sheriff said, his tone deceivingly casual, “how you knew the item was a photo?”

Tina's head, which had been bent down to her cluttered work counter, snapped up. “Why, I . . . you just said so, didn't you, Sheriff?”

“No, I didn't identify the item at all. But you seemed to know that I would find a photo in Mr. Purdy's apartment. Could that possibly be because you put it there?”

“What?” Tina cried. “How could you say such a thing?” She looked to Piper for support. “Tell him that's totally ridiculous, Piper! Why would I do such a thing? All I've done is try to help.”

“That's what I once thought, Tina. But now I believe the person you wanted to help was yourself.”

“You also,” the sheriff said, “seemed awfully comfortable just now having Nate here with you, alone, in your shop, Miss Carson. Someone you believed was a murderer.”

“I, I—” Tina sputtered. “The place just cleared out a minute before you got here. Besides, I knew you'd be here soon.”

“Did you?” The sheriff slipped out Piper's Internet photo. “You've claimed to have no relationship with Mr. Rosemont prior to your arrival in Cloverdale. You also just stated that photos don't lie. Would you like to explain this to us?”

Tina looked at the photo showing her younger self on the arm of a smiling Alan Rosemont. Her hands started shaking. “Where did you get this? That's not me! What are you trying to do to me?”

“According to the website that displays this photo, that is you, Miss Carson. You are identified by name, though Alan Rosemont—and it's clearly him—is misidentified as Alan Carson, not Rosemont. A reporter's mistake? Possibly. But the two of you are listed as co-owners of the Swing 'n Bounce Miniature Golf and Trampoline Center in Scranton. I'd say you must have known Alan Rosemont pretty well, wouldn't you?”

Piper watched Tina's face slowly crumble. Nobody spoke for what seemed an eternity as tears filled Tina's eyes.

“Alan treated me very badly,” she said, her voice trembling. “I was in love with him, silly fool that I was. I believed in romance and fairy tales back then, and I convinced myself he was perfect and wonderful. My Prince Charming,” she said with a pained laugh.

Piper remembered Tina, that night at A La Carte, requesting that Nate sing a particular song from
The Student Prince
and tearing up when he did. Had that been a remnant of her naïve and idealistic self?

“Yes, Sheriff,” Tina said, “we co-owned the Swing 'n Bounce—at least I saw it as co-ownership. Alan talked me into believing it would be an amazing investment that would make our fortune. And as soon as that happened we would get married. The thing is, I was the only one who had money to invest and credit for a loan, so it had to be in my name. But Alan had management and business know-how—or so he said. That made it an even balance in my mind.”

Tina exhaled loudly. “The business flopped. We had a few good weeks at the beginning, but then problems cropped up and public interest waned, and we began bleeding money. I didn't realize it at the time, of course, since I'd let Alan handle all the finances.” She shook her head. “I was so trusting! But Alan saw where things were heading and made plans to save his own skin. One day I woke up and he was gone, along with all the money in our shared bank account. I was left with a pile of bills and no way to pay them. Plus, I'd recently found out I was pregnant.”

“Oh, Tina,” Piper said softly. “Did Alan know?”

Tina nodded. “That probably was one more reason he took off. I could tell he wasn't thrilled with the news, though he tried his best to cover that.” She grimaced. “Not the greatest way to start off a pregnancy—finding yourself abandoned, penniless, and besieged on all sides by creditors. The doctors wouldn't say for sure, but I'm convinced that's what caused my miscarriage.” Piper winced, but Tina drew a deep breath and went on.

“It took me years to recover from it all, but I finally got back on my feet and managed to actually build up savings. That's when I discovered where Alan was. It was totally accidental. An acquaintance of mine showed off an antique doll she'd bought at his shop while passing through Cloverdale.”

“And you came here to confront him?” the sheriff asked.

Tina shook her head. “I didn't expect any compensation by then. He'd made sure the Swing 'n Bounce was all in my name, so the debts were all mine. Our bank account? As I said, it was shared. He could claim it had been mostly his money, I suppose. It was too long ago. I didn't want to haggle over it with him. What I wanted to do was to make him uncomfortable.”

Tina looked at the three skeptical faces and insisted, “Yes! I wanted to remind him daily of his horrible behavior. I wanted him to worry that at any moment I could ruin the reputation he'd built up so carefully in Cloverdale, the reputation that got him elected to the town council and found him a well-to-do, trusting girlfriend. I wanted him to be forever on edge that I might tell Brenda Franklin what he was really like.”

“So you did know he was seeing Brenda?” Piper asked.

Tina turned to Piper, her expression pained. “Oh yes, I knew. And when you said Brenda had something to tell you, I worried that Alan had in fact shared his past with her—probably a whitewashed version that put all the blame on me, but still enough to get the sheriff asking questions.”

“Was Dennis Isley blackmailing you?” the sheriff asked.

Tina began pacing behind her counter. “That's where the photo came from that I slipped into Nate's guitar case. Dennis snapped it after I fled from the fairgrounds. I didn't mean to kill Alan that night! I didn't! I only wanted to insist he stop harassing me with those endless restaurant regulations and hoops he had me jumping through that he thought would discourage me from settling in Cloverdale. But our argument got nasty, really nasty, and all the anger I thought I'd been rid of came bubbling up so that I couldn't even think straight!

“The last straw was when Alan laughed at me. He turned his back on me and walked away and started blowing on that damned bagpipe! I couldn't stand it. So I picked up a tent stake that was lying nearby and swung it at him. Twice! I didn't intend to kill him. I was just so mad that I needed to hurt him for all he'd done to me. When I realized he was dead, I panicked and ran off.”

Tina had been picking up and setting down things on her work counter as she talked—salt shakers, salad tongs, catsup bottles. She grabbed a striped dish towel and rubbed at her face. “Dennis must have seen the whole thing. He took that cell phone photo of Alan, and another of me standing over Alan holding that stake.” She laughed startlingly. “I couldn't very well plant that one at Nate's, could I?” she said, then sobered. “Dennis showed up with his photos later that night and said I'd have to pay him to keep him quiet.”