Gourd to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  I bent closer, squinting. Multicolored eyeglasses decorated the laces. I sucked in a breath. “It’s the eye doctor, Dr. Levant. She must have come to help Tristan with their stall this morning and . . .”

  “And what? A two-thousand-pound pumpkin rolled off its truck and squashed her? No pun intended.”

  I straightened, staring at the white shoes. “This doesn’t make sense. How did she get under that pumpkin? I mean, they’re not exactly mobile.” The killer pumpkin had a flat base, like the other monster gourds.

  “The only way to move those bad boys is with a forklift,” Charlene agreed. She nodded toward the nearby equipment, and the thick canvas straps hanging from the lift.

  “But forklifts are slow and noisy,” I said slowly. “Who would stand around and wait for a pumpkin to be dropped on them?”

  Sirens wailed, faint and muffled by the mist.

  Charlene jammed her hands into the pockets of her knit jacket. “Maybe she was unconscious when the pumpkin dropped?”

  “Or dead.” Bile burned my throat, and I swallowed hard. I really hoped she’d been dead when that thing had landed on her.

  “Think Tristan did it?” she asked.

  My insides quivered. I glanced into the fog swirling on Main Street. “He was nearby, setting up that booth. Tristan probably knew she’d be here. They were business partners. Still, he took an awful chance. Anyone could have seen them.”

  “Could they have?” Charlene turned. The stall builders hadn’t reached this section of Main Street yet, and the fog was thick and obscuring.

  “Maybe not,” I admitted.

  “Look for clues,” she said.

  “We shouldn’t disturb the . . . crime scene.”

  Charlene was bent, running her fingers through the loose hay on the ground.

  So much for not leaving DNA evidence. I walked around the forklift. The key was still in the ignition. That explained how someone had moved the pumpkin. Hopefully Gordon would be able to get fingerprints.

  “See a purse?” Charlene called.

  “No,” I said. “Do you?”

  A gray sedan, light flashing on its roof, glided to a stop beside us. Six-feet-two inches of muscular, square-jawed detective slowly unfolded himself from the car.

  In spite of everything, my heart lifted. The sudden joie de vivre was totally inappropriate for a crime scene, but the detective and I were dating.

  “Val.” Gordon strode to me and grasped my shoulders. His gaze bored into mine, and my breath caught. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded, unable to speak. There was something steadying about his solid presence, even if it was a little rumpled at this early hour. I smoothed the lapel of his blue suit jacket.

  “Helen told me it was you on the phone, but I didn’t want to believe it.” He took in the pumpkin, the shoes. Swiftly, he released me and knelt beside the pumpkin, checking the woman’s pulse. He shook his head. “You were right. She’s gone. Did you touch anything?”

  “I took her pulse,” Charlene said.

  “I didn’t touch anything,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m the town’s only detective, remember? Of course, dispatch called me. Plus, Helen knows we’re dating.” He stood. “What brought you two down here?”

  I dug my fisted hands into my hoodie pockets, my shoulders folding inward for warmth. “We were here early, baking, and we thought it would be a good chance to check out the giant pumpkins—”

  “I thought it would be,” Charlene said.

  “—while it was quiet,” I finished.

  “Did you see anyone else?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Not here, but Dr. Cannon is setting up the optometry booth next to Heidi’s Health and Fitness.”

  “Dr. Cannon?” he asked.

  “Her shoelaces,” I said. “I think the person under the pumpkin is Dr. Levant, the eye doctor.”

  “She and Cannon are partners.” Charlene flipped up the collar of her purple jacket. “I mean, they were partners.”

  “Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves,” he said. “A pair of shoelaces isn’t exactly an identification, though those do look like doctor’s shoes.”

  A slick-looking black-and-white SUV roared to a halt beside the sedan. A uniformed officer leapt from the car and ran to the rear passenger side, opening the door for Chief Shaw.

  Gordon’s handsome face tightened. “Why don’t you two go back to Pie Town?” he said. “I’ll come by to take your statements later.”

  “Belay that order.” Tall, ferret-faced, and slender, Chief Shaw stepped from the car.

  I blinked. I’d never seen the chief in a tracksuit before.

  He gripped a newspaper in his hands and scowled.

  Gordon’s jaw clenched. “Sir?”

  Shaw braced his hands on his narrow hips. “Helen called. She said there was a body at the pumpkin festival. What have we got?”

  “A woman beneath one of the giant pumpkins,” Gordon said. “Her body appears to have been placed there deliberately.”

  “Homicide?”

  “A suspicious death,” Gordon corrected.

  The chief arched a thin, dark brow. “Not so particular about your terms for the press, are you, GC?”

  Gordon’s brow wrinkled. “Sir?”

  “Any idea who the victim is, hero?”

  “What?” Gordon asked.

  I looked at Charlene. She shrugged. I thought Gordon was heroic, but that sort of went with the boyfriend territory.

  Chief Shaw walked around the pumpkin and stopped to gape at the woman’s feet. “Good God, I’d know those laces anywhere. That’s Elon’s wife, Dr. Levant.”

  “Possibly, sir. We need the crime scene techs to remove the pumpkin, and then we can be sure—”

  “Poor Elon. I’ve got to . . .” The chief shook himself. “You’re off the case, GC.”

  Gordon’s nostrils flared. “Sir, I believe I can—”

  “And I believe you’ve got a conflict of interest.”

  “Val and Charlene found the body together,” Gordon said. “They’ve got nothing to do with—”

  The chief slapped the newspaper onto Gordon’s chest. “You and the doctor were competitors.” He glared at me.

  Charlene whistled.

  She held her own newspaper open and read aloud. “‘Of special interest to San Nicholas locals is this year’s pumpkin pie bake-off. Local hero Detective Gordon Carmichael will be facing off against newcomer ophthalmologist Kara Levant. But the local favorite still remains beloved San Nicholas centenarian, Mrs. Amelia Thistleblossom. ’ Hmph!”

  My stomach shriveled roughly to the size of an olallieberry. But not even Shaw could think Gordon would kill someone over a bake-off. He was just steamed about the article calling Gordon a local hero.

  Chief Shaw’s chin quivered. “What do you have to say for yourself, GC?”

  I winced. Gordon hated being called GC, because at the station it stood for Grumpy Cop. There was a certain lovable truth to the moniker, at least when it came to police work.

  Gordon’s expression hardened. “I wasn’t aware of the other contestants—”

  “Not about the other contestants! About this shameless self-aggrandizement. Hero of San Nicholas?”

  “I did not speak with that reporter, sir. I’d no idea—”

  “You’re off the case.”

  Gordon’s hands clenched. “Yes, sir,” he ground out.

  No, no, no. Shaw couldn’t take Gordon off the case for something so trivial.

  “And you two.” The chief pointed the rolled newspaper at Charlene and me. “Get out of my crime scene.”

  Charlene took one step to the left and ducked her head behind her newspaper.

  Chief Shaw glared at Gordon. “Some surfers are on that tech millionaire’s beach again, GC. Go and deal with it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gordon strode to his sedan. He turned and caught my eye, and something softened in his gaze. Gordon slid into the car, and he did not sla
m the door. He made a slow turn, cruising sedately down the street.

  I watched his taillights vanish into the fog.

  “This is ridiculous,” I hissed to Charlene.

  “What are you two gawking at?” Chief Shaw shouted. “Shoo! Get out of here!”

  Charlene raised her head above the paper and her blue eyes crackled. “Shoo? Did you shoo me, young man? I’m a senior citizen!”

  He stepped backward and bumped into the giant pumpkin.

  “Hey! Get off my pumpkin! What did you do?” A middle-aged man with a face like Father Christmas and a voice like a cement mixer strode angrily toward us. He rolled up the cuffs of his plaid shirt. His dark, curling hair was streaked with gray.

  My stomach bottomed. I knew that man. He was my assistant manager, Petronella’s father, Petros Scala. This being a small town, Gordon was related to the Scala family.

  “What’s going on here?” Petros asked.

  “This is a crime scene,” Shaw said. “Stop where you are.”

  “A crime . . .” The farmer’s gaze traversed the pumpkin, and his mouth sagged. “My pumpkin!”

  Shaw puffed out his chest and smoothed the front of his tracksuit jacket. “That’s your pumpkin?”

  “Of course, it’s my pumpkin,” Petros snapped. “Why isn’t it in its truck bed, Shaw?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” Charlene said.

  “That’s enough from you two.” Shaw whirled to face us. “Get out of here.”

  The newcomer’s face flushed red. “And it’s cracked! It’s ruined! Those rats!”

  “What rats?” Shaw asked.

  “San Adrian,” he said. “They told me I’d regret it if I didn’t bring my pumpkin to their festival. But how could I? I live here, and I had a real shot at winning . . .” He trailed off, finally noticing the body beneath. The blood drained from his face.

  “San Nicholas’s first chance in a decade for its own prizewinner.” Shaw rubbed his angular chin.

  I raised my hand. “Uh, do you really think San Adrian would kill a woman just to get back at you for not entering their stupid contest?”

  “It’s not stupid,” Charlene said. “It’s killing our festival.”

  “You don’t understand pumpkin festivals,” Shaw said. “They make people nuts.”

  I really wished people would stop telling me I didn’t understand pumpkin festivals. What was there to understand?

  Two more police cars rolled to a halt beside Shaw’s.

  “Is she . . . ?” Petros swallowed. “Oh my God. There’s got to be something we can do.”

  Shaw clapped his hand on the farmer’s shoulder and squeezed. “Your pumpkin’s a murder weapon, Petros. A little less indignation and a little more information is in order.”

  The farmer shot us a pleading look. “Will you tell Petronella—”

  “What are you two still doing here?” Shaw roared at us. “Get gone before I arrest you!”

  “With pleasure.” Charlene raised her chin and stalked into the swirling fog.

  I scurried after her, down Main Street. Murder. Gordon in trouble. Petros’s pumpkin as a murder weapon. This was awful.

  “We’re in big trouble if Shaw takes over the case,” Charlene said. “And you know he’s going to. He and Dr. Levant’s husband are golfing buddies. You know how he protects his friends.”

  Actually, I didn’t. But I also knew Shaw wasn’t the best investigator. “You don’t think he’ll protect Mr. Levant? This is murder.”

  “I think he’ll see what he wants to see,” Charlene said. “And that this will be too high profile for Shaw to resist.”

  “Dr. Levant is high profile?”

  “No, but murder by pumpkin will be national news.” Charlene’s lips whitened. “It’s sacrilege.”

  I understood what she meant. There was something contemptuous in crushing a person beneath a pumpkin. The act had been . . . wicked, depraved, profane. The nausea returned to clutch at my throat. Who could have done this?

  “It’s the age-old battle between politics and competence,” she continued. “Gordon doesn’t stand a chance. With him gone, this murder investigation will be the loser.”

  She was right, of course. But I was less worried about Gordon not running the case than him becoming a suspect. He was related to the Scalas, and Chief Shaw seemed to have a grudge.

  “You do know why your detective left the San Francisco PD?” she asked.

  “To be closer to his aging parents.”

  “Because he stinks at playing the political game. Here in San Nicholas, Gordon’s always been able to move investigations forward behind the scenes. But what if he can’t this time?”

  He had to. There was a killer loose in San Nicholas. “I’m calling Gordon,” I said.

  He picked up on the first ring. “Val.”

  “Gordon, are you all right? I can’t believe this.”

  “I was the first investigating officer on the scene. But instead of solving a murder, I’m about to explain to a spoiled tech billionaire for the eighth time that he bought a home with public access to the beach, and the public includes surfers.”

  I scrubbed a hand across my face. “Oh, Gordon . . .” I didn’t know what to say.

  He blew out his breath. “It’s good to hear your voice. And I’m fine.”

  Liar. “There’s something you should know,” I said. “The pumpkin, it belonged to your uncle.”

  Gordon swore long and colorfully. “Shaw’s going to have a field day.”

  “The crack disqualifies Petros from the contest,” I said. “That’s an incentive not to use his own pumpkin as a murder weapon.”

  He muttered another curse. His voice was muffled but faint. “Put that surfboard down!”

  “Gordon?”

  “Sorry,” he said, “can I call you later?”

  “Of co—”

  He hung up.

  “Everything all right?” Charlene jammed the newspaper beneath one arm.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “But Shaw can’t really believe this pumpkin business was all a way to sabotage the San Nicholas festival, or that Gordon might kill someone over a pie contest.”

  “Can’t he?” Charlene’s voice deepened. “Can’t he? San Nicholas has two things over the new San Adrian festival.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Point one: history. Point two: a bigger prize for the winning pumpkin.”

  “What is the prize?”

  “Forty thousand dollars.”

  Whoa. That was serious money and enough to inspire murder. Though I didn’t believe a crazed pumpkin farmer was behind the murder, my stomach butter-churned. “This is awful. Gordon’s off the case. Shaw’s either going to go in the wrong direction and blame San Adrian, or he’ll arrest Petros, because it was his pumpkin.” That would destroy Petronella. Arresting Gordon would destroy me, but I couldn’t believe Shaw was serious about the pie contest as a motive. “We’ve got to do something.”

  “Ha. You know what we’ve got to do.”

  I sighed. Yeah. I had to prep for the pumpkin festival, judge a bake-off, manage Pie Town through the busiest weekend of the year . . . and solve a murder.

  Chapter Three

  Charlene paced Pie Town’s gleaming kitchen, pleasantly warm from the giant pie oven. “And then he had the nerve to tell me to shoo!”

  My goth assistant manager, Petronella, turned a shade paler. “You’re sure it was my father’s pumpkin?” She reached behind her and untied her apron strings. “Val, can I—?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Go. Your dad was talking to Chief Shaw by the giant pumpkins when we left.” I knew the helpless worry for a parent all too well.

  Whipping off her gloves and hairnet, her black, spiky hair standing on end, Petronella hurried from the kitchen.

  My assistant, Abril, paused beside the dough flattener. She clutched a round of dough in her hands, her brown eyes serious. “You don’t think Mr. Scala is in trouble, do you?” Her thick, inky hair strai
ned her hairnet. She looked a little like a mushroom, willowy at the base with a puff of white on top.

  “I think whoever wrecked his prize pumpkin is in for it,” Charlene said. “That was his baby. You know how nutty those pumpkin growers get.”

  “Chief Shaw seemed to be treating him as a witness,” I said cautiously, “not a suspect.” So far.

  Abril’s slim shoulders relaxed. “That’s a relief.”

  We returned to the business of baking, and Charlene vanished into the flour-work room.

  At six, I lugged the coffee urn to the counter and turned the sign in the window to OPEN. Watching the glass door for Petronella, I set a tray of day-old, half-price hand pies on the counter.

  I did a final check of the dining area. The glass counter, where pies would go, was crystal clear. The pink tables and booths were spotless, the black-and-white floor blemish-free.

  Everything was perfect, but I couldn’t shake my worry. I knotted my hands in my pink apron. Was Mr. Scala in trouble with Shaw? I glanced up at the pink neon sign with its big smiley face beside the clock. tURN YOUR FROWN UPSIDE DOWN AT PIE TOWN. My logo didn’t have its usual, cheering effect. I hurried into the warm kitchen, scented with baking pies.

  At a central, butcher-block table, Abril arranged dough leaves and pumpkins on top of a pumpkin pie.

  I paused to watch. She was better at pie decorating than me, and I was glad to let her do it. This was prefestival crunch time. Pie Town needed to shine, and our decorated pies were powerhouse sellers.

  The bell over the front door jingled, and I peeked through the order window.

  Senior citizens strolled into the dining area. Drawing back, I shook my head at Abril, and she grimaced. No Petronella.

  The swinging kitchen door creaked open. One of our elderly regulars, Tally-Wally, poked his drink-reddened nose through. “Hey, Val. You’ve got a visitor.”

  “Thanks.”

  He nodded and vanished into the dining area.

  I peeled off my gloves. Wiping my damp hands in my apron, I strode from the kitchen.

  Chief Shaw stood beside the counter. He frowned down at the half-price hand pies, and my insides lurched.