Pies Before Guys

by Kirsten Weiss

  The stalls petered out. We strolled down the deserted road, our footsteps echoing. The dark shapes of low, nineteenth-century brick buildings wavered in the fog.

  I squinted into the dense mist. “How far is it?” The fog this morning was deliciously thick and spooky, like something out of a Sam Spade novel.

  “Why? Are you tired? Maybe Heidi was right about you needing more exercise.”

  I groaned. “Not you too.”

  “Hold on.” Charlene vanished into the mist.

  I waited, inhaling the crisp, October air. It smelled faintly of salt, and I smiled. Though I’d come to San Nicholas for all the wrong reasons, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  Charlene returned with a newspaper and inhaled gustily. “The ink is still warm.” She rustled the paper. “The festival’s on the front page. Pie Town might get a mention.”

  We walked on. Strands of damp hay lay scattered on the pavement.

  “We must be getting close,” I said.

  Blob-like shapes rose before us. A gust of wind parted the fog, strands spiraling like phantoms across the street. Farm trucks with monster pumpkins in their beds blocked our way.

  “Whoa,” I said, stunned.

  Pale and misshapen, the pumpkins lay on their flattest sides. They were big enough for me to crawl inside.

  These could make a lot of pumpkin pies, if they were sweet enough. “What varieties are those?”

  Charlene made a face. “They’re cultivated from mammoth pumpkins. I don’t think you’d want to eat them.”

  I nodded. My personal favorite for pumpkin pies were Jarrahdales, but blue Hubbards were good too, and Cinderellas. . . The latter not only tasted delicious, but they looked like something out of a fairy tale.

  I studied the forklift that would be used for the weighing.

  “Uh-oh.” Charlene pointed at a monster pumpkin lying on the road in front of the forklift. A crack shaped like a lightning bolt shot down its side. Orange pumpkin guts oozed from the ruined shell. “They say it’s not a party unless something gets broken, but someone’s just lost the contest.”

  I frowned, edging closer. “Do you think the owner knows? How did it fall onto the ground?” These monsters couldn’t exactly roll.

  Charlene hissed, fists clenching. “Sabotage. It must have been one those rats from San Adrian. Or maybe another pumpkin farmer. I told you people turn into wolves. You think this pumpkin festival is all fun and games. But it’s serious business. And—”

  I gasped, stopping short, and grasped the sleeve of her soft jacket. “Charlene.” Hand shaking, I pointed to the broken pumpkin.

  Two white tennis shoes stuck from beneath the monstrous gourd.