Free License to Dill by Mary Ellen Hughes Page A

two jars off their shelves. Instead of bringing the spices to Piper to ring up, however, she continued to browse, adding an occasional item—a slotted ladle, then a package of jar labels—to one of the small shopping baskets that Piper kept handy.
    Piper could see from the woman’s furtive glances her way that Mrs. Tilley was bursting to chat, but as she watched the purchases drop into the basket she was torn between making it easier for the woman or letting her continue to build what might total up to a tidy sale. When she saw Mrs. Tilley circle a display of canning supplies that Piper knew for a fact she already possessed, she relented.
    â€œI guess you heard about the Italian team’s manager,” Piper said.
    Mrs. Tilley’s face brightened. “Yes! Wasn’t that shocking? I heard he was found in the Standley dill field. Is that right?”
    â€œThat’s what I understand.”
    At that moment, Phil Laseter, Cloverdale’s retired optometrist, entered the shop. “Ah, Joan! I thought I saw you turn in here. How’s Bob?”
    â€œHe’s fine. Over his cold now,” Mrs. Tilley said, her head bobbing.
    â€œGood, good. Remind him there’s a woodworking club meeting tomorrow night, would you?” As Mrs. Tilley nodded, he said, “Terrible business out there at the dill farm, isn’t it?”
    â€œOh, we were just saying!” Mrs. Tilley chirped. “I can’t get over it, where he was found, and all. Do you suppose Gerald . . . ?” Her voice trailed off.
    Piper jumped in at that point. “It may be only a coincidence. Raffaele Conti’s car was found with a flat tire next to the dill field.”
    â€œShe’s right,” Phil Laseter said. “No use leaping to any conclusions. Though we all know the grudge Gerald held against the man, and—”
    â€œAnd
nothing
,” Emma Leahy proclaimed as she pushed her way into the shop. “That was years ago when they were kids. Don’t go hanging poor Gerald over water that’s long gone under the bridge.”
    â€œI wasn’t—” Phil Laseter defended himself, only to be interrupted by Joan Tilley, who was in turn interrupted by Emma Leahy.
    Piper could only look on in dismay. Gerald Standley was being tried by a jury of his peers before he’d even been charged with anything. And her pickling shop had turned into the courtroom!
    â€œLadies! Gentleman!” she called, restraining herself from rapping on her counter with a nearby wooden spoon. When they turned her way, Piper asked, “Does anyone know about Raffaele Conti’s wife being in town? I heard she’d arrived sometime Saturday.”
    â€œReally?” Mrs. Tilley’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t know that.” Phil and Emma looked at each other and both shook their heads, looking equally surprised.
    â€œI never heard anything about a wife,” Phil said. “She must have stayed at the hotel. Who would know about that?”
    â€œWell, Don Tucker works the desk at the Cloverton,” said Emma. “He should know.”
    â€œGood point. Why don’t we go and talk to him.” Phil turned and headed out the door, followed closely by Emma. Mrs. Tilley was on her way out as well when she remembered the basket of unpaid-for items still hooked over her arm.
    â€œOh!” she cried, glancing anxiously from Piper to her rapidly retreating friends. Piper could see she wanted to keep up with Phil and Emma much more than she wanted to keep her purchases.
    â€œI can hold those for you, Mrs. Tilley,” Piper offered.
    â€œWould you? I’ll come back for them. Well, maybe not today. I have to, well, there are things I need to . . .”
    Piper sighed silently and took the basket from her would-be customer. “Whenever you can, Mrs. Tilley,” she said and watched the woman scurry down the street after the others.
    That scene