The Great Pumpkin Caper

by Melanie Jackson

  We stopped at the mailbox. The rusting box was decorated with a nylon slipcover in a fall motif. I knew from driving my route that mail was delivered here around two o’clock. That meant that the mail in the box was from yesterday.

  There was one piece that I suspected had not been delivered by the United States Postal Service. It was a preprinted envelope, the kind enclosed with bills. This one had an additional postscript written across the front: Go to Hell, Quack!

  “It’s a federal offense to tamper with the mail,” Mr. Jackman said mildly.

  “True.” I held the envelope up to the light. Doc Marley used cheap stationary and I could make out who the bill was to: Avery Beckham. It was for his dentures.

  I made note of the name but didn’t think that Avery, who is universally cantankerous and given to writing letters to the editor at the paper complaining about everything, had dropped this off in the doc’s mailbox and then gone on to the fairgrounds to kill him. Avery was angry, not stupid. His poison pen was weapon enough.

  Mr. Jackman stayed on the porch and I entered the building’s gloom alone. The waiting room was clean, of course. Doc had a service that came in twice a week. But things had changed. There were no fresh flowers on the receptionist’s desk and all the magazines were tattered and out of date. These details had probably fallen to Mrs. Marley and the doc just hadn’t kept them up after she died. It left me feeling disheartened and wishing I could just leave it all alone.

  That wasn’t an option though so I went to the file cabinet behind the half counter. I glanced at the door. Mr. Jackman was holding up chisels from his pack, looking for a match to the gouges in the door, while I started going through the files. I was searching for people who had been fitted with the horse dentures. I began with people associated with the competition, but the job would take a while because I didn’t really know who and what I was looking for. What I needed was an expert on reading files. One who could work unsupervised. One who gossiped and would tell me what she found.

  Feeling inspired, I dialed the Chief to ask for permission to bring in my cousin. After all, she knew the patients personally and had every legal right to be in their files.

  The Chief is no fan of Althea’s, but he is realistic and agreed that she was the best person to examine the medical records for clues. And he sounded more cheerful when I pointed out that Dale Gordon would need to stay home and babysit if Althea was at the office. The Chief thinks Dale is a real knuckle dragger and has been known to say that just hearing his voice can bring on an attack of irritable bowel. I had made his day by getting Gordon out of the station, and it might even be helpful to the case.

  I phoned my cousin, half-wishing it was earlier in the morning so I could wake her. But, alas, she sounded alert and already snappish when she answered the phone.

  Speaking patiently, I told her what had happened to Doc Marley’s office. Then I explained that she could help catch the killer by volunteering to go through the files, looking for patients who wore the horse dentures. This was all true, of course, but mostly I didn’t want to get stuck doing it. The office gave me the creeps.

  When she didn’t answer right away, I explained that the Chief had agreed to give Dale time off to stay with Reggie. It was only when I heard her sniff that I realized that she was crying.

  “I—I didn’t know he was dead. Dale didn’t tell me.”

  Ashamed at myself for not thinking—not really—that she might not know what had happened, and that she might actually grieve at her boss’s murder, I suggested that maybe she should not come in after all. But she interrupted me midapology.

  “No. You’re right. I’m the best one to do this. Is… is the office very messed up?”

  “No. Just the trays of teeth in the workroom. The files seem fine except…” I thought about this. “Some drawers are very tidy, but a couple folders in the last drawer are a little disturbed.”

  And that meant someone other than my anal-retentive cousin had been in them. Maybe Doc Marley had gone into the files for some reason the night he died and left them untidy. But it was equally possible that the killer had been there too.

  “And I need to know if any of Doc’s patients have died recently,” I added. Death could often motivate people to extreme actions. “I know this could take a while and we really appreciate it.”

  “Okay. I need to dress but I’ll be right there. I’m bringing Dale and the baby though.” This was definite, even a little hostile in tone.

  “Good idea. I don’t want you here alone with a killer on the loose and I’ll have to leave soon.” I was surprised when the words left my lips.

  Apparently Althea was too.

  “I wish my hormones would settle,” she said unexpectedly. “I thought this constant moodiness only happened at the change of life. Oh God—do you think I’m menopausal? It’s too early for that, right?”

  That gave me pause. I’d hate to think of Althea entering menopause. She is moody enough on her good days. Of course, I might not be any better with hormones in flux. Grandma Boston, always a little weird and witchy, had practically turned cannibal at the change, or so some people said. Though remembered affectionately for her crazy hand-knit sweaters and ugly afghans that she bestowed on everyone, people weren’t all that sorry when she went to the great trans-fat factory in the sky.

  “You’ve had a baby and you’re tired, but you are not menopausal. Cut yourself some slack.” It was my morning for saying unexpected things.

  We both digested this.

  “See you in ten,” she said purposefully, shaking me from my thoughts of cannibals who knit, and hung up her phone.

  Mr. Jackman found me and shared the news that the chisel was something few carpenters used anymore, the point being too small for anything but fancy carving. Most people like their furniture and cupboards more plain these days.

  “There is only one place in the area that sells antique tools like these. If you want I could visit the shop. I know the owner a bit and he might talk to me.”

  “Good idea.” It was a longshot, but we needed to try it. My gut said we had a small window in which to catch this killer and then he would subside back into his daily routine, burying his madness. In a year he could move away and we would never know who had done this.

  A car stopped outside.

  A red-eyed Althea and I managed a quick hug at the office door. I suggested that she begin with the bottom drawer since it was disarranged and then decamped. I was afraid that if I stayed any longer we might start sniping at one another again.

  Althea had, of course, talked to her mom before leaving the house. Aunt Dot had immediately blabbed to my mother. When Mom thinks I need talking to, she calls my father. It wasn’t entirely surprising that Dad called shortly after and suggested lunch at his place. We could be private there and discuss the case without anyone eavesdropping. I agreed to stop at the deli for pastrami sandwiches and meet him at the house.

  “Dad, did you look at the chisel marks on the Doc’s door?” I asked after unloading the brown bags and taking a large bite of my dill pickle.

  “Yes. Didn’t recognize them specifically though.” Dad poured out a soda for me. “It’s an old kind of chisel, probably used for picture frames.”

  This echoed what Mr. Jackman had said.

  “So no one has brought in an antique chisel for sharpening then?”

  “No, but then most woodworkers like to sharpen their own tools. And I have been pretty busy of late. Haven’t had the van out much.” Dad has a peddler’s van that he uses when he is playing at itinerant knife sharpener.

  I was only a little disappointed by this news. I hadn’t expected there to be an easy answer to an obvious clue. There almost never is, which is why the Chief needs me.

  Speaking of the devil, the Chief called before we had finished our cheesecake and told me that they had finished processing the fairgrounds and the pumpkin carving could go on after all.

  We agreed that it was too late in the day to ro
und up everyone and alert the garden club to prepare food, so we decided that we would begin at eight the next morning. The Chief planned to be there for round two of the competition.

  “I’ll call Mr. Jackman and the others,” I promised the Chief.

  “I’ll be there too,” Dad said as I folded the phone. “I can’t miss my little girl’s great battle.”

  I grinned at him. Dad was just being supportive, but I really was going to win. As long as my kaleidoscope thing worked. I sure hoped the prongs would stick in the pumpkin’s flesh.

  Chapter 6

  I lay in bed the next morning, fighting the call to rise. Halloween had crept into town under the cover of another storm that had burned out before sunrise, but the eaves were dripping and I could hear the wind moaning. It was an inauspicious sign and I felt no excitement, which was in itself disorienting. I love Halloween. My response to the date is almost Pavlovian. And we were having the pumpkin carving contest that day, which should have been doubly great.

  But it wasn’t great, not that morning. My previous excitement and confidence at winning had been overshadowed by the fact that the last day had passed and we hadn’t found the killer. I knew I needed to shake the gloom off and get moving. This brooding wasn’t good for my existential health, and it would make Alex and Blue feel bad too. I just couldn’t find the energy though. I squirmed deeper into bed and pretended to sleep.

  Alex knew how I was feeling. When the alarm clock began to bleat, he turned it off quickly. My appliances function with dubious consistency even on my best days and tend to self-destruct when I am unhappy, so the alarm and phone are on his side of the bed.

  Alex got up without speaking. A few minutes after a cup of coffee hit the nightstand, the enticing smell of Butterfingers reached my twitching nose. My mouth woke up and began to drool enough to make Blue jealous.

  I opened one eye and found Alex waving the bite-sized candy in my face. Blue was beside him, panting hopefully, though she never gets chocolate. The cats watched, too, though what they were thinking was anybody’s guess. In the face of so much concern, my bleak mood lifted. I sat up and ate the chocolate morsel and then reached for my coffee.

  My brain began to switch emotional gears.

  The contest was going on! And I still wanted to win it. Like everyone else in town.

  Well, maybe not like everyone else. I didn’t want it enough to commit murder or cheat by sabotaging someone else’s pumpkin. Victory would be hollow if I didn’t achieve it fair and square. But did everyone else feel that way? I had defended my fellow growers based on gut reaction, but down inside I know there are people out there who would sleep with the antichrist to get what they want. Was one of these immoral types about to sit down next to me and try to out-carve me?

  It didn’t matter. Killer or no killer, I was out to win. And the best place to start improving my chances was with breakfast.

  * * *

  The shadow-shrouded parking lot wasn’t empty. In fact, it looked a bit crowded what with the two giant motorhomes parked near the creek-side entrance. The mud-splashed behemoths were bigger—and probably more expensive—than any home I’d ever aspired to. Frankly, I had to wonder how they had maneuvered them into the fairgrounds. They were wider than most of our town roads.

  The building was surprisingly full for the early hour of the morning. I saw Dad, the Chief, and Althea—who was looking like a corndog in some weird, pinkish-tan tunic that I was guessing my aunt had knitted for her. Dale must have been home with Reggie. A quick glance found my mother and Aunt Dot. My aunt was in the kitchen, wearing a dress that looked like a shower curtain. I hoped it was an apron. Our family doesn’t need another eccentric for people to gossip about.

  The room smelled of pumpkin bread and coffee, which should have been relaxing but only got me more riled up.

  Most of the faces in the crowd were familiar, and they were there because of the contest and because they wanted to support their friends and neighbors, but I was certain that there were a few ghouls among us who were there solely to see where murder had been done. Added to all the costumed witches and ghouls in the audience, I began to feel like I were in the middle of a Tim Burton movie.

  There were no ghosts though. No shadows of the late Doc Marley haunting the hall. Ghosts don’t like bright lights and warm pastry and giggling children.

  One new face in the crowd was Mr. Tompkins. He is an undertaker from Evanston and responsible for most of the local UFO sightings reported in the paper. His face looks like petrified wood and on any other day of the year would have drawn attention. As a kid I had heard that his skin problem was because of all the formaldehyde he used in the embalming room of his tiny mortuary. This had sounded reasonable enough when I was eight.

  I thought now that it might also be because his face was frozen in a painful grimace, showing off a set of Doc Marley’s giant teeth. I wondered if he was there to support someone. We had no competitors from Evanston.

  I gulped some coffee and shook hands formally with Mr. Jackman and wished him luck. Then it was time to begin. Casey White called us to the tables to take up our positions.

  We stood silently. The judge watched the clock. We watched the unsmiling judge. The crowd watched us. Everyone held their breath. The hands clicked onto the eight and the twelve.

  “Begin,” said Casey White, his voice barely louder than a mumble.

  I rolled my pumpkin onto its side, exposing the bottom, grabbed my coping saw, and started slicing up and down like a piston in a race car. I tried not to grunt as I worked. I knew that Mom was probably gasping at the show of ferocity and praying that I didn’t lose a limb, but I had practiced this move on other squash. The saw was now my friend. I needed to get this part over with quickly and get on the design.

  The traditional school of pumpkin carving has the lid at the top of the pumpkin, usually with a vent carved in it. For some designs, this is fine. But I wanted the area on top to be smooth so as to not draw the eye away from my design. That meant cutting out the bottom of the pumpkin and cleaning it from beneath.

  The newspaper was there again. The photographer took pictures, more than yesterday. Perhaps they wanted photos in case someone else got killed. The flash was annoying but I stayed focused. Picking up a hand trowel, I began scraping away pumpkin guts, which I dumped into a giant bowl. Later I would sort out the seeds and put the rest of the guts in the compost heap at home.

  Once in a while I glanced at the audience, including the Chief. Admittedly, he isn’t my father, and therefore has no obligation to be attentive to my artistic efforts, but it was safe to say that he was there to watch the crowds and not for love of decorative squash. He never looked my way.

  Casey White wasn’t watching us either. He just stared at the clock in what was either profound meditation or boredom so deep it bordered on suspended animation. In profile I could see the bags under his eyes.

  That was okay, I guess, if he didn’t watch. He wasn’t there to award points to the person who cleaned their pumpkin most efficiently, just who had the best end results.

  Some contestants had made stencils of their designs and were busy with pushpins and tracing paper, poking the patterned holes into their pumpkins. I didn’t need any. Thanks to my brain’s little quirk, I could easily hold the pattern in mind and even transfer it onto a bent surface. Choosing my smallest coping saw, I began to work.

  When I next looked up, almost an hour had passed, and I spotted a new face in the front row. It was my friend Jane Hillman. We had been close in high school. She had married and started a family right away and I had opted for college. We tried coffee a few times, but it ended when her two-year-old daughter decided to eat the cats’ food. The kid threw up at once. Jane was put out that I hadn’t thought to pick up the cats’ food—but who knew kids would eat cat food? I never did when I was a kid—and I kind of thought that I had the raw end of the deal since I had to clean up the kitchen floor when she left.

  At least I am prepared
for watching Reggie, though I hope my cousin has more sense than to put smelly things in his mouth. It isn’t genetic inevitability that he will favor his father.

  I flexed my tired fingers and Jane took this as a wave, so I smiled and nodded.

  Eventually the twin faces were done. Both were hideous, one terrified and the other menacing. They were terrific. The flair at the bottom even looked like shoulders.

  But many of the other designs on the table were equally good. Taking a deep breath and saying a prayer to the Great Pumpkin, I poured out my small bag of jewels and Mylar strips and began plastering the interior back wall of the pumpkin.

  Mr. Jackman, who was on my left, paused in his carving and then laughed softly.

  “Fabergé?” he asked.

  “Exactly.” Only done strictly in the colors of Hell. “Castle Frankenstein?” I asked of his design. I noted that he had taken excess pumpkin and carved dozens of small bats. The detail was amazing.

  “Exactly.” He smiled back.

  We had less than an hour left. I began working feverishly. My fingers were sore. It took some effort to poke the jewels’ prongs through the reflective plastic.

  At the two-minute warning, I wiped my hand on my towel and then reached for my electric candle. I had regular candles too, but I wanted more light than fire and wax could give me. The battery candle was short and would not be seen if I moved it to the front of the pumpkin.

  After that I lit the regular votive candles. My hands were damp and I was having trouble with the lighter, but Harvey Myers to my right was obliging about lighting them for me.

  I thought my lungs might explode as I held my breath, maneuvering the top of my pumpkin back into place, but my organs survived and just in time I had a completed jack-o’-lantern.

  I would like to say that I really believed that even if I didn’t win, I was happy because I had achieved what I set out to do. But the truth is that I would have been pissed off if I hadn’t won.

  That wasn’t a problem though. Casey White placed a large trophy in front of my pumpkin and then muttered that Mr. Jackman was the second place winner and Maurice Snowden was third. Amid the cheers he slipped away.