Town in a Pumpkin Bash

by B. B. Haywood

  That made Maggie perk right up. “Hey, that’s not a bad idea. What do you have in mind?”

  Candy thought about it a moment. “We’ll just have to figure out what your strengths are and then build around that.”

  “What an intriguing concept.” Maggie straightened in her chair, liking this idea more all the time. “Which strengths do you think we should start with?”

  “Let’s see.” Candy assessed her friend with a scrutinizing eye. “You’re good with numbers, right? And you’re an excellent manager.”

  “I like working outside,” Maggie put in, “and I’m pretty good with plants.”

  “Plus you’re bright, personable, hardworking….”

  “Well groomed…”

  “You’re good with customers….”

  “Self-motivated and organized…”

  “You have a wonderful sense of humor….”

  “And I can throw together a pretty mean lasagna in a jiffy!”

  They made a list of all of Maggie’s attributes and another one of prospective jobs, both existing and new ones, that might fit her skill set. They tried to think broadly, even adding lobsterman to the initial list before scratching it off. “I tend to get seasick,” Maggie admitted, “even in light chop.”

  Over the next few days, they fanned out, looking into options around town. They checked all the nurseries and farm suppliers in the area, for instance—all three of them—but none were hiring. They caught wind of an opening with the town maintenance crew, but it turned out to be a job for a Bobcat operator to help clear snow off the sidewalks and streets over the winter. Maggie demurred. Ditto for a job as a bus driver for the local school district. “Me on the roads this winter with a bus full of rambunctious kids? I don’t think so.”

  Creating a new job for her proved to be trickier than they thought. Which way to go? Start her own organizing business? Or cleaning service? Collect empty soda cans by the side of the road?

  She considered becoming a private tutor, opening a senior-care business, and even becoming a business coach or interior designer, but in the end it was Candy’s father, Henry “Doc” Holliday, who made the suggestion that stuck, mostly because it was the easiest idea to get started on, and matched her skill set perfectly.

  “Why don’t you talk to Mr. Gumm about taking over that pumpkin patch of his?” Doc said absently one afternoon while he was standing on the porch cradling an armful of vegetables, including peppers, tomatoes, and onions, which he’d just picked in the garden. He planned to make his famous spicy tomato sauce that evening.

  Doc went on to say he’d overheard at the diner that Mr. Gumm was thinking about selling a pumpkin patch he owned because he could no longer keep up with it, and it was starting to fall into neglect. When Candy expressed an interest, Doc elaborated, though first he ducked inside so he could set down the vegetables on the kitchen counter.

  “Well, let’s see. From what I’ve heard, that piece of land has been in the Gumm family for generations. They’ve grown other crops there, of course, like corns and beans, but mostly they’ve utilized it as a pumpkin patch, because the soil’s rich and moist, and it’s got good exposure to sun. They have two fields—Low Field and High Field—where they plant different varieties. Connecticut Field pumpkins—those are the traditional jack-o’-lanterns, you know—in Low Field, and more of those plus some heirlooms in High Field. From what Mr. Gumm said, they just ran a simple u-pick operation, and apparently made quite a bit of money at it over the years, when it was well managed—which it hasn’t been for a long time. He talked about selling it, but I don’t think he’d really ever part with it, since it’s family property. But he’s clearly frustrated and doesn’t know what to do with it. Maybe there’s an opportunity there, especially with this Pumpkin Bash thing coming up.”

  That got their imaginations going. The “Pumpkin Bash thing,” as Doc referred to it, was a relatively new event in town, supported and managed by a small yet energetic group of local residents and business owners. The idea was to draw trick-or-treaters and their families to the downtown area on Halloween night by keeping the stores open late, handing out candy, and creating several large displays of lit jack-o’-lanterns up and down the streets and in Town Park. Entrants for a giant pumpkin weigh-off contest would also be on display, and there’d be a few food booths, kids’ games, and entertainment.

  For someone with a pumpkin patch, it was, as Doc said, a golden opportunity—or more accurately, Candy decided later, an orange one.

  She talked it over with Maggie, who quickly latched onto the idea, deciding it was a perfect fit. And she persuaded Candy to help her with it. “If we can make a few thousand dollars each, that would go a long way over the winter, and give me time to figure out my next long-term career move,” Maggie said at the time.

  After agreeing to work the patch together, they approached Mr. Gumm, though Maggie, who had worked at the hardware store and knew the elderly proprietor well, did most of the talking, explaining how she and Candy would take over the patch, spruce up the operations, use their business savvy to make it a profitable business again, and share some of the proceeds with him.

  He readily agreed, and after a round of handshakes to seal the deal, offered them anything they needed, including the use of an old tractor he kept at an adjoining property he owned, and any tools or materials from the hardware store—within reason, of course.

  And they’d delivered. Thanks to their efforts over the past few months, the once-neglected pumpkin patch now thrived, thickly populated with mature vines, their faded green leaves nearly the size of elephant ears, helping to feed the still-burgeoning orange fruit that abundantly peppered the fields.

  Mr. Gumm had been pleased with what he’d seen when he stopped by one day in mid-September to walk the two fields with them. “My two grandsons and a few of their friends helped get the fields ready for planting this year and got the seeds in the ground,” he told them, wiping a handkerchief across his forehead, more from habit than the warmth of the day. “Said they’d stick around to run it through harvesttime, but then one of them headed off to Texas with his girlfriend, and the other got into a pretty good school in New York, so here I was with this field I couldn’t manage. Good thing you ladies came along with your idea. I’d’ve hated to see all this bounty go to waste.”

  He turned, surveying the fields around them, finally pointing nowhere in particular. “You might want to fertilize those vines with a little fish emulsion—got plenty of that around here along the coast. I’ll see some gets out to you. And when you notice pumpkins tipped over on their sides, set ’em up straight. That way they’ll flesh out rounder and oranger and you’ll have better-looking fruit. Helps if you put a shingle under each one too—keeps ’em up off the ground, so they look prettier, and the prettier they are, the more you’ll sell. If I remember correctly, there’s a stack of them behind the farm stand. Course, you’ll want to start clearing out some spots for your pumpkin piles. Makes it easier for the customers if they can just pick up a few off the piles. We used to keep them arranged by size. Easier to price that way.”

  He’d given them a few more tips, and left the rest to them.

  For the business end of the operation, they renovated the property’s small, dilapidated farm stand at one corner of the pumpkin patch, modifying and expanding it to suit their needs. Ray Hutchins, the local handyman, added a wider, reinforced countertop and put angled storage bins up front, so they had plenty of places to display pumpkins of various sizes, plus squash, baskets of Indian corn, and assorted jars of homemade blueberry jam, all with the decorative Blueberry Acres label attached, as well as elegant jars of Coffin Farms honey, delivered by Marjorie Coffin herself. And on a series of narrow tables off to one side, arrayed in bins and baskets, they’d set out just-picked vegetables from their gardens, which were now deep into harvest. Today they had late carrots and beets, potatoes, squashes, garlic, and onions. There were also the last of the Macintosh apples from one of the
local orchards, plus a few containers of chrysanthemums.

  Then, of course, there was the Pumpkin Hollow Haunted Hayride.

  They’d had good crowds throughout the fall but wanted to end the season with a big splash—and pocket a few extra dollars to help get them through the winter ahead. Earlier in the month, Maggie had spotted an old hay wagon at the farm where they’d found the tractor, which gave her the idea.

  “You know, we should do a haunted hayride the last couple of weekends we’re open,” she’d told Candy one morning while they were out at the patch. “We could set up a few spooky displays, like tombstones and that sort of thing, then take people around the pumpkin patch in the hay wagon, tell a few ghost stories, and send them merrily on their way. Of course, we’d charge for the ride and remind them to pick up a few pumpkins on their way home, as well as a couple of jars of jam and honey and such. It could be a lot of fun, and it’d help us sweeten the profits before we close things down. What do you think?”

  “I think,” Candy had told her, “that you’d better brush up on your ghost stories, because I’m going to drive the tractor, and you’re going to be the haunted hayride’s hostess with the mostest!”

  THREE

  It took them ten minutes to get the waiting crowd, which included several families and a few seniors, settled on board the hay wagon.

  As they climbed up a wooden step and onto the bed, the passengers all talked, laughed, and smiled in anticipation, but the children were the most excited, chattering nonstop with parents or with one another as they staked out the best places to sit for the upcoming ride. In anticipation of Halloween, some had dressed in costume, so this morning the hayride’s passengers included a short-statured nurse, a princess in pink, a blue-caped superhero, and two zombies with ashen faces and dark eyes.

  A few of the adults also wore some type of costume accessory, such as bunny ears or alien antennae, and one portly gentleman chuckled as he climbed aboard dressed in a bee costume. But most of the adults simply wore brightly colored hooded sweatshirts or fleece vests, ball caps, rain jackets, and even a few scarves against the blustery day, though some braved the unsettled weather with nothing more than shirts and jeans, and one shaggy-haired male teen had opted for cargo shorts and sandals, proving that the weather in Maine rarely imposed itself upon the fashion trends of the younger generation.

  Maggie herself had been one of the first to climb up onto the bed of the wagon, so she could help the passengers who needed assistance in getting seated. She and Candy had placed bales of hay around the exterior sides of the wagon and spread an inches-thick layer of hay across the bed as well to provide relatively comfortable seating.

  Candy stationed herself on the ground at the back of the wagon and did a quick head count. Twenty-two passengers in all—close to the wagon’s limit. They preferred to keep occupancy under twenty-five, though on one run the previous weekend, they’d managed to squeeze in nearly thirty. But they both felt that was pushing the limits of safety and comfort.

  As the passengers passed by her to climb up onto the wagon, Candy took their tickets and exchanged pleasantries with many of them. They’d sold the hayride tickets earlier at the farm stand, rather than here at the ride itself, so they could keep all their cash in a centralized location—though it was hardly as secure as locking it in a bank vault. They stuffed their ones, fives, tens, and twenties into a metal cash box, which they locked and tucked away behind the farm stand’s front counter when they were off on the hayrides. It was an admittedly unsecure hiding spot, but folks around here were honest and hardworking, and even if someone should happen to discover the box, Candy and Maggie had no concerns that it’d be stolen.

  They’d also placed a hand-lettered sign on the counter that read HAYRIDE IN PROGRESS, since inevitably customers would come along wanting to purchase pumpkins and other farm-stand items, or tickets for an upcoming ride, while they were in the back field. But the hayride lasted only ten or twelve minutes, and so far no one seemed to mind the wait.

  And there was probably a good reason why—the pumpkin patch was a beautiful place to hang out, especially on a seasonably brisk autumn morning. The vines, grasses, and wildflowers that had grown up across the low, hammocklike field during the summer were fading toward winter, though they’d glimmered with a touch of frost that morning. Beyond the field, the colors were not quite as spectacular as they’d been a week ago, since the trees here along the Maine coast were just past peak. Spots of vibrant golds, reds, and oranges lingered, but the foliage was inexorably darkening into rusts and ambers and mustard yellows, eventually to wither away in the annual fall ritual.

  “Don’t you just love this time of year?” quipped an elderly woman as she handed her ticket to Candy. “The air is so crisp and clear, and the fall colors this year have been absolutely stunning.”

  “They certainly have,” Candy replied. “Are you from around here?”

  “We drove up from Virginia,” the woman said, indicating her traveling companion, a quiet, gray-haired gentleman who had already climbed up into the wagon, “though we have lovely color there as well, especially along Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway. But we’ve never been to Maine before, so we thought we’d come up for a visit this year, and it’s been just lovely.”

  “Well, we’re glad you’re here,” Candy said amiably as she helped the woman up.

  The last few passengers were climbing aboard when Candy heard the sound of a car pulling into the parking lot. Thinking Sebastian J. Quinn had finally arrived, she looked to her left.

  A silver sedan was just coming to a stop beside a bushy fringe of deep red chokeberry. Candy could see only a single passenger inside. This could be him, she thought. This could be Sebastian. And she turned and signaled to Maggie, who nodded. She also had spotted the vehicle from her perch up in the wagon.

  The car’s engine shut off and a few moments later the driver’s side door swung open. The man who emerged was lean and tall, with thick sandy-colored hair and the rugged, athletic, educated look of someone who had played multiple sports at some Ivy League college, though he was well past college age—in his early to mid-forties, Candy guessed. His brown jacket and slacks looked comfortable yet stylish, and expensive, though in an understated way.

  He slid his hands into his pockets and studied his surroundings in a casual yet seasoned way, his stance shifting fluidly as his gaze swept across the flora and fields before settling on Candy. He tilted his head, smiled, and nodded in greeting.

  Candy nodded back, uncertain of who he was. Obviously not the bearded, bearlike Sebastian J. Quinn.

  As the newcomer started across the parking lot toward them, Candy looked back at Maggie and shook her head. It’s not Sebastian, her gesture said.

  Maggie had seen what she’d seen, and her right eyebrow rose questioningly. Who is he? she mouthed. But Candy just shrugged and shook her head.

  Maggie glanced a final time toward the approaching stranger, and then, as if she’d been given a signal, turned back to her passengers. “Now that everyone’s on board,” she began in a rousing tone, “we’d like to welcome you all to the Pumpkin Hollow Haunted Hayride!”

  The passengers broke into an enthusiastic applause as Candy kicked aside the wooden step behind the wagon and reached for the back slat, which she hefted up off the ground and dropped into place as Maggie launched into her rehearsed presentation.

  “In just a few moments,” she told the passengers, “we’re going to take a spooky sojourn back through Pumpkin Hollow’s haunted history. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but strange events have occurred on this isolated plot of land for centuries. Some folks say there’s an old Indian burial ground somewhere nearby, dating back to before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, and that the souls buried there become restless after dark. Others believe a British force from Augusta massacred a settlement of French squatters somewhere around here in the late seventeen hundreds, and that their ghosts still appear on dark nights when the mi
sts roll in from the sea. What makes these fields so fertile yet so deadly? No one knows for sure, but whatever happened here, both good and malevolent spirits linger, and they seem to become particularly active as we get closer to Halloween. So keep your eyes open, because we just might see a few of them today!”

  Several of the children simultaneously giggled and shivered in anticipation, and the adults chuckled.

  As Maggie continued addressing the passengers, Candy made her way around the wagon toward the tractor, but stopped halfway there as the newcomer approached her.

  “Hello!” he called out as he made his way along a path between the chaotic pumpkin vines.

  The day had brightened briefly as the sun broke through an opening in the overcast sky, and she held up a hand to shade her eyes. “Hi,” she said as he drew closer, “can I help you?”

  He flashed an easy smile as a strong gust of wind tussled his hair, which curled around the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t happen to know someone named Candy Holliday, would you?” he asked.

  “I would,” she said after hesitating only a moment, uncertain of why this handsome stranger would have driven out here to the pumpkin patch on a Saturday morning looking for her. “And who’d be looking for me?”

  He laughed, easily as well. “Hi, Candy, I’m T.J., and I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about the haunted house. You know, the one where the woman was murdered? I’ve heard you know something about that place.”

  FOUR

  If anyone else had approached her with such an odd opening line, she might have reacted differently. But this inquisitive newcomer who called himself T.J. had such a casual attitude and a disarming way about him that she could only laugh as she let her guard down. “Well, T.J., I just might be able to help you out,” she said, instantly feeling at ease in his presence, “but what makes you think Sapphire’s old place is haunted?”