Copyright © 2017 by D.S. Mowbray
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way without express written permission of the publisher. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Pumpkins and Trickery
Series: A Cupcake Shop Mystery
Volume: Book 2
Genre: Murder Mystery/Investigation
Published: November 2017
Standalone: Yes
Cliffhanger: No
Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
A Letter to the Reader
Chapter One
There’s just something magical about the pumpkin season. I don’t remember when it was that I started to fall for the lure of October, but once I did, there was no turning back. The season embraces you into its coziness and craftiness and you just cannot stop enjoying all the things that it has to offer.
I’ve decided to start the season decorations earlier this year, only because I want to extend the segment of enjoying the sensation provided by the ornaments around the atmosphere. Heather and I set up a meeting time to go and visit the pumpkin patch together. I’m going to choose the best pumpkins out there, carve their interior out and create scary, magical outdoorsy lanterns out of them. My yard is going to be my favorite time to spend the evenings for the time being.
It's just I want to make the most out of the little things life has to offer.
And I know to do so, I have to indulge in the spirit of the season and surround myself with all sorts of things that would help bring me in the October spirit.
When Heather arrives, I’m on my third cup of tea, and since it’s the end of the week, I thought that a little extra portion of tea wouldn’t hurt me. Actually, it would just fill me with enjoyment.
Before I go greet her, I grab a bunch of my savings from the counter, and waddle over the spot where I’ve put the big Mason jar tagged ‘new decorations’ where I put all my additional earnings in hopes that I’ll be able to buy new stuff for my cupcake shop. And since the business is going so smoothly, I decided that it was about time that I came up with new decorations.
“Augh,” scoffs Heather, first thing when she shows up. “Everyone looks so pumped up around town about the new season. So annoying.”
“What’s annoying about it?” I ask, uncertain, with a smile. “This is one of my favorite seasons of the year.”
“Yeah, no wonder. You like just about everything.” She grabs one of the cupcakes from the tray above the counter and starts chewing. “It’s all these pumpkins and meaningless excitement about fearfulness. Like, could it get any more trivial?”
“I love trivial,” I protest. Like, literally, I love every little, (perchance) meaningless and trivial thing out there. What I’ve learned from these last couple of months is that it’s not just the big stuff that you have to enjoy. It’s the trivial stuff also that light up the world and make it cozier.
“Figures,” she rolls her eyes, while talking in between bites.
Coral ambles around, and starts snuggling against my feet. He loves October too. I guess it’s his favorite season of all. He likes snooping upon cobwebs, or trying to figure the structure of the lighted pumpkins in my yard.
“So are you ready to hit the bricks?” I ask, pumped up about my prospect visit to the pumpkin patch.
It’s been a routine of mine, really. Every year, this time, I have to pay a delightful, prolonged visit to my favorite shop in town, where you can find all of the pumpkins that you would need, of all shapes and colors possible.
“Yeah, sure,” she grabs her scarf from the couch’s hand-rest where she flicked it before, and before hitting the exit, she takes advantage grabbing another one of the cupcakes that I’ve displayed on the counter.
Sometimes I wonder whether cupcakes take priority over everything else in her life.
Our drive to the pumpkin patch goes by joyously, and I can see Heather trying to keep up with my happy mood, but if I were to guess, then I’d say that underneath all that prospect merriness, something doesn’t feel quite alright about her. I know that maybe what happened with Rylan got her down somehow, and frankly I feel a little blameful for having to point it out to her (I had to do what I had to do) but it all came down to it, and she couldn’t carry on with a relationship where she didn’t receive the attention and affection that she conveyed to the other end.
There’s just something about the pumpkins’ scent that has me going when I’m in the store. To see a bunch of pumpkins piled altogether into a tangerine composition is beyond magical. That’s why I love spending time into the pumpkin patch, and each year I look forward to this day the most.
I can tell so far that it’s going to be hard to have to choose the right shapes, sizes and colors of the pumpkins that would make it as my yard decorations. There’s always a bizarre, yet irresistible feature to each individual vine that clings to you. Heather says that I’m a spoon addicted to perfectionism. And though I have my objection to that, still I wouldn’t resist the lure of admiring the structure of each pumpkin individually. And quite frankly, to me, having to opt between different vines is some sort of luxury that I can’t abnegate from.
“Ainsley, what’s up?” I look at the smiley face of Kelsey, one of the store crew.
It is a fact that the crew here are very amicable, and though I don’t come here very often (once a year to be precise), it so happens that it’s not hard to make friends with them.
“Hey, Kelsey,” I give away my friendliest smile, while taking in the fragrance of a miscellanea of pumpkins compiled to a single place.
Isn’t it lovely?
“Would you like some tea?” she offers, and one of the other things why I love this place so much is that they always offer you something to drink, most especially tea. Like, where else does this happen in a place that isn’t a coffeehouse?
“Would love to,” I respond, while Heather snubs her offer with an obnoxious scowl.
On the other part of the store, I spot Alyvia polishing the pumpkins so that they’d look more appalling to the latent customers.
While Kelsey hands me my mug of coffee shaped like a carved pumpkin minus the topside, I smell at it and relish in the warm scent of the tea.
“Alyvia,” I waddle to her, while she turns around and as soon as she detects me, a smile joins her face.
“Oh, Ainsley,” she smiles, “how are you sweetheart?”
“Well, it’s always amazing to be here,” I connote. “What about you? How are things going with the shop?”
“Well same as always,” she says, bored, but then, as if something hit her head, the flicker in her eyes changes and she comes back at me. “Except, Mr. Grantham seems a little ext
ra pushy these days.”
“What do you mean?” I frown, interest suddenly aroused. Mr. Grantham is the owner of the shop and he’s always the sweetest person.
“Well, he’s being kind of…meticulous. Always on me about the way I arrange the vine compositions, or the way I polish them. For him, there’s always going to be a certain pumpkin that is out of order, or not glistering to perfection. It’s the first year, I’ve seen him like that.”
“Quaint,” I note, “he’s always very amicable.” Meanwhile I’m making a mental note to catch up real quick with him. Part of this decision is that he always helps me choose the rightful pumpkins that would match my decorative concepts.
“You do that,” she smiles and gets back to her work.
Heather joins me, looking grudgingly around the place. Different from me, the idea of the scary spirits frightens her, and she’s always attentive to keep tabs on what’s going on around her, just in case some angry ghost might be waddling behind her back.
“Are you planning on staying here any longer? The place stinks,” she scowls, taking the shop into scrutiny.
“I love how it smells,” I close my eyes joyfully, and let myself take in the scent of the vines.
Meanwhile, I detect someone strolling, preoccupied, on the other part of the shop. And it’s not long until I realize that it’s Mr. Grantham. I call out his name and hurry my way toward him.
“Mr. Grantham,” I repeat. And it’s on my second call that he turns around and meets my eyes.
I would be expecting a warm smile by his part, but I guess this time he’s just too concerned with his issues, so he maintains his scowling face.
“How are you?” I smile, snubbing his miff, and being my typical, amicable self.
“Ainsley,” he mutters in a non-affected way. “It’s that time of the year again that you love so much. I almost stopped keeping tabs on your annual attendance to the pumpkin patch.”
“It’s just,” I fidget with my hands nervously, “I’ve been busy. Things have been a little tough around town lately. But I’m doing fine now.”
“Glad to hear,” he points, but he doesn’t look like it.
“I was hoping we could catch up on the latest decorative tendencies in regards to the season,” I enforce a smile on my face, since it has been like a tradition of ours now that we always have a little chit chat about the seasonal trends when it comes to harvest decorations.
“I don’t think I have much time for that,” he says, and I’m a little bit shocked to be honest. I’ve never received a retort of that kind by his end, and I find it a little unexpected to say the least. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says and moves along, leaving me behind, starry-eyed.
What just happened? Why did his behavior affect me this way?
Speechless, as I am, I swing my head around and pore over the shop, and I stop at something that got me a little startled to be honest. I almost am too familiar with the shop since I come here every autumn, and that would do to make me a regular. So let’s just say that I’m very acquainted with the crew here. But now I’m just looking at someone wearing the shop shirt that I don’t recognize. I suppose I could just go and talk to him, but as I’m propelling my legs to start moving, I’m stopped in place by my favorite crewman. Jayvion.
“For a moment I started to believe you were done with your pumpkin obsession. And here you proved me wrong again,” he says flirtatiously and it’s so cute.
“Jayvion,” I crawl my voice like an infatuated silly girl, and gawk at him, looking all admirable as he does. “It’s always nice to meet you.”
He gives me a little peck on the cheek in the moment I’m imperceptibly leaning forward. It’s so magical to spend time in a shop where everybody is so nice at you. But I don’t think that’s just a marketing strategy. I think that that’s just the way they are.
“How are things going on for you and the cupcake shop?” he asks nicely.
“Better than I expected,” I connote.
“Glad to know,” he smiles, and I look downward for a second, trying to avoid his unceasing stare. “Hey,” he seems to have come up with an unexpected, enjoyable idea. “Why don’t we catch up over coffee sometimes? I recon you’ve a lot to share lately.”
“Yeah, sure.” I blush, trying to think this isn’t a flirtatious moment of ours. Heather is always on me about him flirting, but I always try to convince her there’s nothing but amicable vibes between us.
“I’m going to let you do your shopping now,” he smiles and gets back to his work.
Meanwhile, I’m approaching to the pile of vines in the corner of the shop. The field around us smells like October, and it’s the most amazing scent that you could expect. Most of the vines are arranged in this open space of the shop, where the ambient is more suitable for them. And basically the open part consists in a big harvest-like field where lots and lots of pumpkins are compiled together.
I start admiring the artful shapes of pumpkins, trying to imagine how they’d fit in the area over my yard. And I go through each pumpkin, paying the same attention and dedication to all of them, until I’d have selected the rightful vines that would make it to my yard.
“I was just arranging this compilation. I’d rather you didn’t make a mess out of it.”
I’m startled by the words directed to me, so I turn around trying to reveal who the voice belonged to. Behind me, I find a strange face that belongs to the new member of the shop crew.
“Oh, hey,” I try to sound amicable, despite the roughshod addressed to me. “I’m sorry if I caused any misconception here.”
First, I don’t understand. It is their duty, as the shop crew, to take care of the mess any and each customer would create, and it’s against the general shop ethic to interrupt the latent buyers from their shopping. And second, I don’t think that I was even making a mess in the first place. I’m a very organized person. At least, that’s what I hold myself as.
“It’s just everybody comes here, and they make the same exact mistakes, cluttering up the entire place, and creating the same old muddle for me to fix.”
Like, isn’t this his job? I’m very sure his job description doesn’t imply stickling with the customers and if I were to report him to Mr. Grantham, then he’d be in a lot of trouble. He could even risk his job position for all I know. But I’m too nice to do that. I don’t want to cause any problems for anybody. Though, for sure, I want to do my shopping calmly.
“I’ll try to be more attentive,” I note, but it comes off as a question instead.
“Yeah, that’d be nice.”
Like, what would he have me do? I’m a customer. Browsing is my duty, it seems like. So no wonder I might make a little mess while I’m at it. And I’m sure they wouldn’t mind, since at the end, I am a patron, meaning that I’d get out of the shop with at least a bunch of vines alongside me.
“I’m very accustomed to the place, actually. It’s one of my favorite shops in town,” I point out, trying to spark a nice conversation to him. I just got the feeling that we got off to a rocky start. “I just love everything about it.” I pore at his poker face for a second and I proceed. “I’m Ainsley by the way.”
“Right,” he mumbles, disinterestedly, and turns around.
I glance at him, while he’s leaving and I don’t understand where all this rage is coming from. He seems like a mundane person. And there’s nothing about him that indicates he must be moody.
I scowl, and get back to the pumpkins. It has never happened to me before that I would get scolded by a shop crew.
But maybe it’s better that I snub it. After all, I’m here to enjoy my shopping. And that’s what I would do, despite anything or anyone that would get in my way, trying to stop me.
I get one of the tangerine vines in my hands, holding it firmly and approaching it to my nose. I sniff it, closing my eyes to concentrate on the magical, out-of-this-dimension situation in my head.
As I’m digging into the vine compilation, I get a
ll of the pumpkins out of order, hoping that the best of them are hiding underneath. And a smile joins my face when I detect something that looks almost magical. In all the long tradition of my harvest decorations, I’ve never seen a pumpkin this…perfect. Its shining color is covering all of the surface; it’s so symmetrical and perfect and I’m already imagining what I would make out of it.
Glancing admirably at the pumpkin in my hands, for a moment, my eyes land on the compilation of vines underneath me, and I catch sight of something that looks like a hand.
My pumpkin shatters to bits from my hands into the ground, when I realize what really is going on. I get the vines out of the way to discover the other part of the mystery that’s hiding beneath the compilation. I look at the cold body of the man in front of me, and next thing I know, I’m surrounded by all the other customers of the shop.
Chapter Two
It was shocking for me to find the remains of yet another man in the place you would least expect this to happen. In the pumpkin patch. Considering my shocking state, Detective Cassidy decided to book this meeting up to my house again, expecting me to give an official statement down at the precinct as soon as I’ve gathered myself, but I don’t see this happening anytime soon. Why should I be the one to find the remains of the man? Maybe I’m just so egotistical so as to think this in the time there are greater concerns in the world. Like, for instance, a man was murdered. There was blood covering the autumn pumpkins nearest the body, and I still can’t get the knife stabbed on his flesh out of my head.
That was just horrible. That’s the only way I can describe it.
When the doorbell rings, Coral purrs alongside me, and I propel myself to get out of the couch, letting the mug of tea back to the table, and making my way to the door.
“Ms. Holden,” detective tries to maintain a poker face.
“Detective,” I mutter, “please, come in.” I move aside, making room for him to step forward.
“Why do I get the feeling you just can’t get out of trouble’s way?” he raises an eyebrow, still looking at me inexpressibly.
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