Pumpkin Pied

by Karen MacInerney

  As he walked back to help fold up the hose, someone spoke behind me. “I think they’re right; this land is cursed.” I turned to see Marge O’Leary talking with a woman I didn’t recognize.

  “I heard there was an Indian burial ground here,” the woman responded in an ominous tone. “Maybe they’re not happy about the building being put up. Did you hear about the blood on the corn maze?”

  “I heard there was a heart, too,” Marge said.

  “They shouldn’t build on this land. That’s the reason old Eileen didn’t build a house here—that’s why it’s been empty so long.”

  I glanced at Lucy, whose eyebrows lifted, as they drifted away.

  “I know Charlene was talking about a ghost, but firecrackers and a pig heart don’t exactly sound supernatural to me,” I murmured.

  “Me neither,” she said as Charlene hurried over to us, looking worried. “Claudette’s going to be okay, thankfully; I’m so glad you two helped her and her grandson out of there. Any word on what started it?”

  “Firecrackers, they think,” I reported. “Pranksters, probably.”

  “Well, it’s sad to lose the corn maze, but I guess this was the last year anyway.” Charlene pulled a long face. “I’m just glad nobody got caught in it.”

  “Are they still going to do the pumpkin judging and the baking contest?”

  “They’re on the schedule for tomorrow,” she said.

  “If Phoebe’s pumpkin makes it that far. Henry looked like he was about to commit vegetablecide.”

  “Who knew harvest festivals could be so full of drama?”

  “You have no idea,” Charlene said, shaking her head.

  “Wait until the baking competition tomorrow,” I said. “I got roped into judging last year... never again.”

  “That bad?”

  Charlene grimaced. “I think I stopped one of the library volunteers from taking a contract out on Nat—but only barely.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t move to a small town,” Lucy quipped. “It might be safer in the city.”

  Lucy joined me in the kitchen that night as I assembled the final version of my Turtle Pumpkin Pie. I had chilled the pie dough earlier in the day; now, as my friend sat across from me, I rolled out the dough and formed it in the pie pan.

  “My grandmother used to make pies,” Lucy said, pushing a loose strand of brown hair out of her face. She had the same round, sunny face she’d had when we were in college almost twenty years ago. “One of my best memories is sitting in the kitchen while she made a peach pie in early summer.

  “I do miss the peaches sometimes,” I said. “But I don’t miss summers.”

  “No,” she agreed. “But at least I don’t have to shovel the driveway.”

  I finished crimping the edges of the pie dough and looked up at her. “Do you think you’re going to buy the farm?”

  “It’s financially a huge risk,” she said. “But it’s something I’ve always wanted to do, and I just don’t want to wait and then find out I waited too long. Besides, it’s my grandmother’s farm. This may be my only chance.” She sipped her hot cider. “I kind of thought you were crazy when you quit and moved up here, after taking one trip.”

  I grinned. “I did, too, to be honest. I had a lot of sleepless nights.”

  “And now?”

  “And now, I can’t imagine living any other way,” I said as I put the finishing touches on the crust and turned the oven on. “No commute, no boss, no bureaucracy... it’s amazing. There is bookkeeping,” I said, “and keeping reservations straight, but it’s definitely worth it.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said, and I could tell by the look on her face that she was imagining waking up in her grandmother’s farm. “The thing is, though, I’ve been gardening for years, but it’s different having your own garden than growing crops to sell.”

  “A lot of people here do crafts, too,” I suggested. “Candles, soaps... you can grow flowers. Diversify. Have you visited any other small farms?”

  “A few,” she said. “It looked doable.”

  I dumped a can of pumpkin into a bowl and measured out half and half. “What do they think?”

  “They say it’s hard work, but it’s worth it.”

  I added sugar to the bowl. “Can you make the numbers work with your savings?”

  “I can,” she said. “Barely, but I can.”

  “Then what do you have to lose?”

  “Other than my life savings?” she grinned.

  “You can always sell it if it doesn’t work out,” I said. “But I suspect that won’t happen.”

  “You’re a bad influence, you know,” she said.

  “Bad?” I grinned. “Or good? Can you zest a lemon for me?” I asked.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she said, as I tossed her a lemon. “The zester’s in the middle drawer,” I said, pointing to it.

  “In the meantime,” she asked, “what do you think is going on at the festival?”

  “I think someone’s trying to scare off the buyer, if you ask me,” I said. “Did you hear that conversation about the place being haunted?’

  “Sounds pretty far-fetched to me,” she said. “Although it would explain the lights at night.”

  “But the lights have been there for weeks,” I said, “and the pig heart didn’t turn up until this morning.”

  “Maybe someone’s pretending to be a ghost?”

  “Maybe,” I said, but I wasn’t convinced. “I think something else is going on.”

  “Should we go and check it out tonight?” she asked as she rinsed the lemon in the sink.

  “John won’t be happy,” I said.

  “He can come with us,” she suggested.

  “Let’s get the pie done and we’ll go look,” I told her. “We saw lights in the woods, right?”

  She nodded. “Maybe they’ll turn up again. In which case, it might be a good idea to have John with us.”

  I finished mixing in the sugar and the spices, and Lucy added the lemon zest. “All we need to do now is put together the topping,” I said.

  “I’ll do the rest,” Lucy said, looking at my recipe. “Go check with John.”

  “Thanks,” I said as she scanned the recipe and reached for the pecans. We’d spent half our college days baking; my future mother-in-law was a disaster in the kitchen, but anything Lucy turned her hand to came out delicious. “I’ll be back in a few,” I said, and untied my apron.

  By the time John and I stepped back into the kitchen, the smell of pumpkin pie was wafting through the kitchen. “Are you sure we have to give that to the judges?” John asked.

  “There’s a little of the sample pie still in the fridge,” I said. “And there are a few whoopie pies left, too.”

  “Tough decision,” he said. “But I think I’ll go for the pie.”

  “So,” Lucy said, grinning at John as he opened the fridge. “Did she talk you into it?”

  “Well, if I said no, I know you two would go on your own, so I suppose that’s a yes,” he said. “And there’s always the chance that whoever is responsible will come back, so it’s not a bad idea.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “Pie will be done in ten minutes, and then we’re good to go.”

  “I’m going to run upstairs and put on something warmer,” Lucy said. “Back in a few!”

  It was almost fully dark when we walked over to the meadow where the Harvest Festival took place. “Still smells like smoke,” Lucy commented.

  “It probably will for a while, unfortunately,” I said, as we stopped to survey the area.

  “No lights yet,” John observed. “Where did you see them?’

  “Over by the trees,” I told him, and together we skirted the blackened field and headed for the trees.

  “This way,” I said, pointing to the right. He flashed his light on the ground. “Boot prints,” he said.

  “There were a lot of people here today,” I pointed out.

  “Not in the trees, though. This might h
ave something to do with the lights.”

  We walked a bit further and discovered a large brown tarp covered over with dead leaves and vegetation. “What is this?” I asked.

  John bent down and lifted a corner of the tarp, revealing a grid marked out with posts and plastic tape.

  “Looks like a scientific survey of some sort,” he said.

  “Only it’s been dug out,” I replied, looking at the square holes in the ground. “Like someone’s looking for something.”

  “Maybe Indian artifacts?” Lucy asked.

  “It’s a good thought—and it’s on a bit of a hillock,” I said. “But if they are, why be secret about it?”

  “Maybe because the land doesn’t belong to whoever’s conducting the survey,” John said.

  “You think this has something to do with the burial ground that’s rumored to be here?”

  “If someone found one, that might scuttle the sale,” Lucy said.

  “You think?” I asked.

  “If you can show that it’s a site of archeological importance, then there are often prohibitions about building.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Maybe we should wait a while and see if someone turns up.”

  “You think they will?”

  “You saw lights last night, didn’t you?” John asked.

  “Yes, but I think those were at the corn maze. Still,” I said, “I guess the pie is done, and there’s no one at the inn but us... why not?” I asked.

  Together, the three of us walked a ways into the woods until we found a fallen log that was shielded by a few low bushes.

  “I wish we’d brought more of those whoopie pies,” Lucy grumbled after we’d been sitting in silence for twenty minutes.

  “Me too,” I whispered, and John shushed me. I caught a glimpse of a flashlight bobbing through the trees, moving in our direction. Before long, there was a crack of a breaking branch, and low voices drifted over to us.

  “... set the fire?”

  “Don’t know.” The first voice was male, and the second voice was female—I didn’t recognize either of them. A few moments later, I heard another fragment of conversation... “find the site?”

  “It doesn’t look disturbed.” We heard the sound of the tarp being lifted. “Do you think we have enough?”

  “I think so,” the female voice said. “But a bone fragment would be ideal.”

  “Fingers crossed,” the man responded.

  We sat on the log for two hours while they worked... it was obviously an archeological dig. My leg kept falling asleep, and the log was becoming very uncomfortable. I was about to propose we go home when there was a stifled whoop from the mystery pair.

  “I’ve got something.”

  “What is it?”

  “A femur, I think,” the woman said.

  A minute later, the man concurred. There was a series of flashes—pictures, I surmised. A few minutes later, I heard the sound of the tarp being replaced, and the lights began moving away.

  “Let’s follow them,” I whispered.

  “Let’s wait until they’re under way, first,” John said. “I’ll go first.”

  A few minutes later, we followed the bobbing lights through the trees. I was thankful for the little light the moon provided; it wasn’t terrific, but it did spare me from tripping over as many branches. It wasn’t far to the road, and we followed them as they turned onto a long driveway I recognized.

  “That’s Murray Selfridge’s house,” I whispered.

  “Who’s that?” Lucy asked.

  “My mother’s boyfriend,” John answered, watching as the lights disappeared into the garage. “I think we have a few questions to ask her when we get home.”

  Catherine was still up when we knocked on the door to the carriage house.

  “What’s up?” she asked, wrapping her bathrobe around her.

  “Sorry to bother you,” I said. “But we have a question... does Murray have house guests?” John asked.

  “He does, actually,” she said. “He’s hosting some students from the University of Maine. Why?”

  “Do you know why they’re here?”

  “Some sort of research.” She shrugged a satin-clad shoulder. “I never asked.”

  “Did he say if it was archeological?” John asked.

  “He never said. Why?”

  “I think they’re digging on Eileen’s land in secret,” I told her.

  A furrow appeared between her eyebrows. “Why on earth would they do that?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” John said. “Would you ask him?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” she replied.

  “I’m guessing you’re more likely to get the real answer,” John said with a grin.

  She grinned back. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll ask tomorrow. But he may not tell me... he likes to surprise me sometimes.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet you can get it out of him,” John teased her.

  She turned a light shade of pink. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, young man?”

  He laughed. “Let us know what you find out,” he said, and we headed back up to the inn together.

  “It’s an archeological dig,” Catherine told me the next morning, just as I was finishing up the breakfast dishes. “But I’m not supposed to say anything about it.”

  “I wonder what he’s up to?” I asked.

  “He says he’s doing a good deed,” she said.

  “You must be a good influence on him,” I told my future mother-in-law with a smile. I thought about what Lucy had said about archeological finds. Was it possible that Murray secretly hired a team of archeologists to find evidence that would prevent the land from being developed? I never thought I’d find Murray, who had spent the last twenty years trying to turn the island into a posh resort, trying to prevent someone from building, but if I was right, I had to hand it to him. I was hoping last night’s discovery would be enough to stop the sale of the property... or at least lower the price enough so that we could raise the money to buy it for the town.

  “What do you think it is he’s doing?” Catherine asked, fingering the pearls around her neck.

  “I’ll let you know when I’m sure,” I told her. “But if I’m right, I’m cooking him dinner.”

  She sighed. “Nobody tells me anything!”

  The festival was already in full swing when Lucy and I arrived at noon. I’d dropped my pie off at eight. There were several other delicious-looking offerings—with the exception of Claudette’s, which I knew had contained no sugar and recognized by the crust, which looked like it was made of Play-Doh—but it looked like no one else had thought to use pecans. I thought of them as my secret Southern weapon.

  A very full-looking Gertrude Pickens was slipping a few Tums into her mouth when I got to the pie-judging tent. “Did you pick a winner?” I asked.

  “I did,” she groaned. “But I won’t be able to eat for a week.”

  “I always say that,” I said, “but it never works out that way.”

  Charlene was at the donut booth. When there was a lull in the line, I told her what we’d seen the night before—and what Catherine had told me about Murray.

  “Do you think it’s possible he’s doing a good deed?”

  “I think he is,” I said.

  “Even if he does scuttle the sale, though,” she said, “there’s no way we can raise the money to afford the property.”

  “I guess it depends on how much they sell it for.” I glanced back at the blackened earth where the corn maze once was. “And it still doesn’t solve the issue of who put that heart by the maze—or set it on fire.”

  “I think I have at least an idea on the heart,” Charlene said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They were dissecting pig hearts in A.P. Biology at the high school last week,” she said. “Emily Flowers was telling Tania about it.”

  A.P. Biology. I looked over at the pumpkin patch, and everything clicked. “I’ll be right back,” I s
aid.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I just want to ask someone some questions,” I said, and before Charlene could pry further, I drifted off toward the pumpkin patch.

  The person I wanted to talk to was standing at the cash box, sorting bills. I walked over and smiled.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, looking around to make sure we were alone. “I know you’re responsible for the pig heart,” I said in a quiet voice. Her eyes widened. “And the firecrackers—I know you didn’t mean to set the maze on fire. You were trying to make the property look haunted, or cursed, to scare off buyers.”

  Emily blanched. “How did you... I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “You got the pig heart from your biology class.”

  She clapped a hand to her mouth.

  “Emily, I know how much this festival means to you,” I said. “I won’t say anything to anyone... but don’t do anything else, okay? We got really lucky with the corn maze.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “I never meant to burn it down. I was so scared someone got hurt... or worse.”

  “I know,” I said. “Someone else has been working behind the scenes—with any luck, the sale won’t go through.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I’m guessing we’ll know in the next day or two.”

  “Oh, that would be so awesome.”

  “Don’t say anything to anyone,” I warned her. “And no more pranks, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise,” she said. “Thank you,” she added. “For talking to me—and for not saying anything.”

  “No worries, Emily,” I said. As I spoke, the PA system crackled to life; it was time to announce the judges’ results. “I’ve got to go hear if my pie won,” I told her as I headed over to the tent. “We’re all good?”

  She nodded, looking relieved.

  Quite a crowd had gathered—primarily locals—to hear our selectman and Lobster Co-op president announce the results of the contests. I noticed Claudette White, in a sweater she’d knitted from wool she’d harvested and spun herself, looking hopeful that her sugar-free pie might take home a ribbon. Emmeline was there, too, in an orange dress with dangling pumpkin earrings, standing by her husband Henry, who was still looking apoplectic about his failed pumpkin. Although I didn’t know what Emmeline had concocted for the pie competition, I knew whatever she’d made was going to be hard to beat.