The Great Pumpkin Caper

by Melanie Jackson

  “No, I lettered in pumpkins. Did a whole thesis on them in college.” I didn’t ask why she was there. Mom and Aunt Dot were working in the kitchen, selling coffee and cookies to raise money for the community gardens. Althea was bored since the dental offices were closed. Her boss was in the competition, too, and she had tagged along because there was nothing else to do.

  My cousin sniffed to show me what she thought of my sarcasm and then muttered something about useless hobbies compared with the importance of motherhood and poetry. If she hadn’t been carrying the baby I might have dumped the rest of my café mocha on her head. Apparently she intuited this and gave me a look. It’s the one she uses to terrorize already frightened children into the dentist’s chair. It used to work on me, but not anymore.

  This woman was a mother? I still couldn’t believe it. Motherhood hadn’t mellowed her. Mom said it was lack of sleep that made her testy. I think it was the diet and exercise designed to take off the baby weight that made her grumpy. Grumpier. Anyway, though acting nasty, she was actually looking pretty good. Though there was still a little postpregnancy remodeling left to do if she wanted back her completely flat tummy, I thought she was doing great. Especially considering that in August she had looked like a turkey stuffed in a bathing suit and now she had an actual waist. Not that I said this to her. As with naughty dogs, one shouldn’t reward jerks for their bad behavior.

  At Mom’s urging, I tried to see her as one of those Russian nesting dolls—one whose outer layer has gotten stuck shut, but where inside the shell of pride, and under the layer of arrogance and the doll of immaturity, there is maybe a pleasant being that one day might break out and see the light of day.

  Or not. Maybe she is more like an onion, and would inflict tears on those around her no matter how many layers are peeled away.

  My Aunt Dot and Mom joined us. Aunt Dot was looking worried as she glanced between us, and I decided not to add to her concern by being honest and tactless with my thoughts and observations. Not like her own daughter. My poor aunt! She did her best with the material she was given by her useless husband. It is hardly her fault that Althea is more stinky mud than moldable clay.

  Anyway, I didn’t have time for an eyeball death match. Taking a leaf from Althea’s own book of backhanded conversation, I said to my cousin, “You look absolutely exhausted, dear. They have sugar-free pie and coffee over at the kitchen. Why don’t you have a rest while they finish with the preliminaries and registration? You won’t miss any of the excitement, and maybe you’ll feel inspired to scribble a little poem about our event.”

  Little poem. That condescension would piss her off.

  Mom frowned at me, not trusting my sweet voice. Althea opened her mouth to retort with something nasty but my mother said firmly, “Chloe is right. Let’s go have some coffee and then get to the kitchen. We’re just in the way here and there are lots of cakes waiting to be unpacked.”

  Reggie, bless him, began to fuss and Althea, posing as a good mother, allowed herself to be led away.

  Across the room, Mr. Jackman, who had arrived while we were talking, smiled at me with great understanding. Unlike Althea, Mr. Jackman rarely gives or takes offense at the things people say and do, nor does he begrudge them their successes. We could be competitors but still good friends.

  Mrs. Graves, carefully clearing abandoned coffee cups, is likewise usually accepting of her neighbors’ foibles. But Mary Beth Whitman and Mr. Jackman’s brief friendship (he said), or his flirtation (Mrs. Graves said) with the younger woman—and Mrs. Graves’ adverse reaction to said interaction—had put both of them on the outs. I hoped they’d get over it by Thanksgiving or it would be really awkward having them in to dine since they were wearing only the tiniest fig leaf of civility.

  At least Mrs. Graves had come to the competition. I’m sure she would say it was for me or to help the garden club, but she spent most of her time watching Mr. Jackman, so I knew better. I thought that it would be easiest if they just gave in and got married. They are the perfect couple and neither is getting any younger.

  Then I thought of me and Alex. Was it okay that I wasn’t yet thirty but could already see where I would live and what I would do and be for the rest of my life? And was happy about those choices? Did that make me fortunate, or deliberately nearsighted and perhaps unambitious?

  I shook off the introspection. If there was ever a time to live in the moment, this was it. The judges had reached Jacky’s pumpkin. This year the judges were three local farmers, Rex Morris, Herman Schwann, and our Easter bunny, Thaddeus Brookes. Our guest judge for the carving competition was a local wood sculptor. I knew little about him except that he had been recently bereaved. His wife, Lily White, had been a painter.

  I didn’t know Casey White personally because he was a relative newcomer to town. The guest judge sure didn’t smile much. In fact, he scowled constantly. I wondered if he was bored or rather snooty about us amateur carvers, but then he turned to say something to Thaddeus Brookes and I saw that he had a set of Doc Marley’s dentures. Maybe that was why he was being so quiet. Maybe he was self-conscious. Perhaps his dentures were bothering him.

  Poor man. Here he was, a widower, new in town—I made a note to ask Mom to be extra nice to him. I couldn’t do it myself. Not until the contest was over.

  The morning was rather long and the judges were understandably slow and methodical at what they did. I didn’t mind so much because I loved looking at all the pumpkins, but Althea had gotten bored and left a little after eleven. Oh, what a shame.

  But before I could heave a sigh of relief, Bob and Rosemary arrived. I squatted behind my pumpkin and pretended to tie my shoe. I had heard from Mary Elizabeth that the in-laws were headed out of town next week. I live in fear of being asked to watch their cats again. They are feline hellspawn.

  Fortunately, my mother-in-law headed straight for the kitchen. Tough break for Mom and Aunt Dot.

  I stood up and Bob gave me a small smile before waving at Alex and starting to take pictures with his new camera. I like my father-in-law. I don’t even mind if he talks to me. It’s just rare that Rosemary lets him speak, and I guess Bob wasn’t willing to risk it with his wife only one room away.

  At last it was time to announce the winners, and one by one the winning pumpkins were moved up onto the stage. Jacky’s name was called right after Mr. Jackman’s. I couldn’t have been happier if it was Christmas. And apparently neither could Jacky, who was incoherent with pleasure at his medal and trophy. His mom was there, too, looking bemused as she finally realized that Jacky’s “big” pumpkin was really big and would take up most of her porch when he brought it home. Yes, Mr. Jackman’s was twenty-seven pounds heavier and therefore took first place in the weight division, but Jacky’s pumpkin still had the largest circumference, if that is the word for an uneven blob of squash. My third place weight win made me happy, too, but I was more pleased for my young friend who had put his heart and soul into tending our pumpkin patch. I had a feeling he was going to sleep with his trophy and medal that night. He might even glue them both to his bicycle.

  I smiled as I took congratulations from my neighbors, and hugs from Dad and Alex, who seemed to think I might be bummed about not winning. I just smiled and patted them back and explained that I was going to win the carving competition.

  Above us, the storm finally broke. Rain began to fall on the old tin roof and in the distance thunder rumbled. Maybe it was an omen of dark things to come, but at the time I was just happy that my sinuses stopped hurting.

  Chapter 3

  The Chief’s call came just before six in the morning. You didn’t need to have psychic powers to know that something bad had happened.

  “Boston, get to the fairgrounds. Security has found a body. I think we have a murder.”

  “’kay,” I croaked, my voice dry with sleep and sudden dread. Apollo and Aphrodite glared at me as I pushed them aside.

  I dressed quickly, hoping my clothes weren’t too mismat
ched but not bothering to check the mirror in case the news was bad. I didn’t wear my uniform since there was every chance of it getting messed up. Crime scenes are often messy and the department doesn’t have any coveralls in my size.

  “Do you want me to come?” Alex asked, stuffing me into a coat and handing me a thermos of coffee. His voice was grave, his face worried.

  “Not yet. We don’t know for sure that this is a murder.” Alex doesn’t do well with bodies. Of course, who does? But I tried to keep him away from this part of my job. “I’ll call later when we know more. Bye, Blue. You look after Alex.”

  Blue thumped her tail and looked sleepy. I wondered how dogs managed without coffee.

  It was still drizzling as I pulled out of the driveway. The murk had only just begun to shift in the east. All the houses were dark. It was cold and dim, a bad time to be out in the world. The perfect time for murder though, and someone had been out doing evil while the godly slumbered.

  The Chief hadn’t said who was dead. But my inner voice noted the location of the suspected homicide and ruled out casual observers from out of town as being the victim. The crowds had left around four the previous afternoon when the weigh-in was over, and even the diehards had called it a day around five. No one had been out doing a midnight picnic in the rain.

  Had it been Mr. Jackman or any of my close friends who was dead, the Chief would have told me. No way would he let me walk in on that cold, I told myself. That left people in the competition that either the Chief didn’t know himself, or didn’t know that I knew.

  But of course I was acquainted with everyone in the competition, at least in passing. The judges and growers were all in the county and they had ties to my parents, if not to me.

  And that meant that someone I knew, though maybe not a close friend, was dead.

  I don’t have too many emotional surprises because I regularly organize my mental closets and I know what sentiments are in them. But occasionally I misjudge the strength of those feelings. I had a suspicion that this might be one of those times.

  * * *

  “You didn’t notice anything was amiss at the competition before this happened?” the Chief asked.

  “What am I, psychic?” I snapped, which got me a look of mild surprise. The Chief wasn’t expecting testiness from me. “Okay. Sorry about that. Competition nerves.”

  And just plain old nerves. Doc Marley’s grimacing face looked like it might have been carved from driftwood. He had had a small bag of saws and chisels with him that had opened when he fell and they had scattered on the floor. Those ownerless tools, so much like mine, made me feel forlorn. And maybe a bit frightened. There but for the grace of God and all that.

  Trying for calm, I stared at all the lovely pumpkins in the room. Waiting. And they would go on waiting. It was the day before Halloween. I doubted we could secure and process the scene before then, and after Halloween there was hardly any point in carving up the magnificent squash. No one would come to see them in their final form. And they were too heavy to move to Courthouse Park for the town Halloween celebration. Carving destroyed the structural integrity of the pumpkins and they would collapse if handled roughly. Even whole, moving was too much effort and expense for most people. The behemoths would simply be harvested for seeds.

  “I’m just trying to get a sense of the atmosphere here since I missed yesterday’s competition. I need to have some understanding of this event and you are the best placed to tell me,” the Chief said mildly, breaking in on my thoughts. “You need to be my eyes and ears, Chloe.”

  I nodded, then made an effort to let go of the shock and anger and disappointment. It was childish to have a temper tantrum just because someone—a killer—had once again ruined my favorite holiday and interrupted a pumpkin carving competition. There were greater things at stake. Greater things had been lost, like someone’s life. But we had gathered, the other growers and I, to share our annual consensual and mutual hallucination that growing pumpkins matters. And, of course, it does. To us. It is as important as Nascar, golf, or football is to others. It is just a whole lot less popular with people over the age of ten.

  The switch from excited, competitive anticipation to cool detection left me with mental vertigo, and the disorientation angered me further. I’m a good hunter, the best the Chief has, but it isn’t all I am and I was having trouble getting with the official program. It would have been easier with Blue there. She helps me focus. Should I call Alex and have him bring her? No, the Chief would probably summon him soon enough. There was bound to be a financial angle to this case, and Alex would find the black money box if the reason for the murder involved exchanged currency of any kind. He is a forensic accountant. Finding the money trail is what he does.

  My job is less academic, less clean than looking at numbers on a screen. It still deals in sums and totals, but of a different kind. Some killing is for profit, but in small towns murder usually means crimes of emotion—hate, envy, lust, shame. All real big on the hometown hit parade, and all really awful to look at in one’s friends and neighbors.

  The Chief would train more like me if he could so I wouldn’t have to do these unpleasant things when they happened, but some skill sets cannot be passed on in a classroom. There was no understudy to take my place, as much as the Chief and I might wish it were so.

  “Help me, Chloe,” the Chief said softly, and I knew that he was also particularly repelled by this murder. I am not a brain inspector, but you don’t need to be a shrink to know the wiring in someone’s mental fuse box doesn’t meet basic human code. Whoever had done this was not only angry but probably not sane. Unfortunately, whoever had done this was also quite capable of hiding their madness or we would have already known who it was.

  It isn’t often that I will allow myself to slip into deep think when people are nearby, but I closed out the others who were going about their work with the body and turned on what I think of as my brain’s computer processor. I began to use what I call Analytico. The Chief has seen me use it before and he knows that I can’t always speak quickly or concisely when I am in deep think. My brain does not multitask when engaged this way. I tend to fugue, to follow only my thoughts, and I forget how to communicate. He is patient and guides me with questions if needed. The Chief, I reminded myself, doesn’t think I am weird. He thinks what I do is wonderful because it catches criminals. I do not need to feel embarrassed by my ability, and I shouldn’t either.

  “Do you need to sit down, Chloe?” the Chief asked. Okay, maybe he thinks I am wonderful, but my blank stare is disconcerting. Dad has even said so. He also told me that the color leaves my face and I look like I am on the verge of fainting.

  I didn’t answer. My body was calmer by then, but the cells that make up my brain were in hot pursuit of information and eagerly ordering the details it had found so far. At first it was a bit like bumper cars, but I began tossing out what was irrelevant and the picture got clearer. My dad calls this reductive logic, others call it intuition. Or the sight. Later I would take the remaining relevant facts and build conclusions, but first I had to reduce the variables. For instance, maybe green men from Mars or crazed Lithuanian freedom fighters had snuck into town and killed the dentist—no one could prove otherwise yet, and I was sure there would be gossip just as ridiculous once it started making the rounds—but this wasn’t a theory I would waste time on. Not unless I ran out of other options. Then I might consider the men from Mars thing again. Our town is known for its UFO sightings.

  “I don’t think the killer is a competitor.” I made an effort to annunciate. It wasn’t easy.

  “So a killer, not an idiot prankster?”

  I examined this belief that we had a deliberate killer at work, breathing in the smell of the straw as I considered. It was soothing, safe, a friendly animal smell. Walking slowly, I went to a bale and sat down. The hay pricked me through my jeans, but I ignored it. Though there might be something inherently funny about oversized squash—to some people—I
could see nothing that would suggest a jest gone wrong.

  “The killer knew this would end in death or serious injury. Especially once he started to move the pumpkin. It wasn’t a casual joke. Nor should they have been in here at night. Doc Marley shouldn’t have been here either, so maybe he was followed to the fairgrounds by the killer. Did he have a key to get in?”

  The Chief nodded.

  “The door wasn’t forced. We’re making inquiries about who lent him a key. Why not a competitor though? That would make more sense, wouldn’t it? A fellow enthusiast could have asked to meet Dr. Marley here. Who else would fit in as well?”

  “Lots of people know about this and have reasons to be here. Audience, garden club boosters, volunteer cooks, judges.” I exhaled. “And Doc didn’t know anyone was here with him.”

  “There were a lot of people here yesterday that know about the pumpkins?” I could tell that this surprised the Chief.

  “Yes. Packed building.”

  “Okay, but I still think a competitor makes more sense than some other observer. A rival. It’s what the textbooks would point at.”

  I shook my head though I suspected he was playing devil’s advocate.

  “Too serious.” That wasn’t enough of an answer and I tried again, dragging up words to share my understanding with the Chief. “The people here are too serious about growing. They are dedicated farmers. It takes years to breed pumpkins this big. They become like religious objects.” I had a brief vision of someone lighting candles and praying to a pagan god of pumpkins and almost laughed.

  “Religious objects?” the Chief sounded dubious.

  “Or children. Or pets. They wouldn’t sacrifice their pumpkins this way. Too much loss of prestige. Too much loss of money. Bad attention for the hobby in the tabloids. There are easier ways to kill someone you don’t like.”