The pumpkin racer bumped my sneaker.
“Val!” Takako hurried to me and gave me a hug. “What happened? We lost you inside the haunted house.”
“I don’t know how we got separated,” I said. “And then I saw a, er, friend.”
“And she gave you a bedsheet?” Charlene arched a snowy brow and fiddled with the remote control.
“Her costume was becoming a real pain.” I bundled it up and tucked it beneath my arm. “I told her I’d hold it for her at Pie Town. Did you see the winning pumpkin?”
Charlene nodded. “Petros didn’t win. The crack was disqualifying.”
I winced. Ouch. “He knew it would lose him the contest, but still, that must have smarted.”
“Who’s Petros?” Takako asked.
“He’s my assistant manager Petronella’s father,” I said. “It was his pumpkin that was on top of Dr. Levant.”
A high-pitched scream echoed down the street.
I started. Had my ghostly attacker returned?
The crowd scattered, shrieking.
A goat charged down the street, horns curved wickedly.
“It’s a stampede!” Charlene shouted.
“It’s a goat,” I said.
“It’s a goat stampede!”
A little girl sat crying in the middle of the road.
“She’ll be trampled,” Charlene bellowed. “Val, do something.”
“It’s a goat.” I glanced around. No one else was running for the girl. Where were her parents? “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” I jogged into the street and grabbed up the girl, clutching her to me.
The goat focused on us. It increased speed, its hooves clattering on the pavement. It lowered its head, ramming position.
Oooh, this was going to hurt. I turned one hip toward the goat and winced, readying myself for the inevitable blow.
The pumpkin racer zipped between us and the goat. The animal skidded to a halt, its hind legs collapsing.
A woman charged into the street and wrenched the girl from my arms. “What are you doing?”
“I was . . .” I stammered. “She was in the street.”
“Why did you take her into the street?”
“I didn’t!”
“Stay away from my daughter.” She stormed away with the child.
“I was only trying to help,” I said weakly.
“Charlene, Val!” Laughing, Takako jogged to my side. “You’re heroes.”
“If I don’t get arrested for child abduction,” I muttered, face warm.
Robo-pumpkin lurched toward the goat.
Shaking its wooly head, the goat clambered to its feet. It nosed the pumpkin.
“And Val thought I was sending her into a dangerous situation. I had it all under control.” Charlene smiled modestly. “Now, watch me herd the goat back to the petting zoo.”
The pumpkin reversed, then bumped forward and tapped the goat.
The goat nosed it back.
Charlene fiddled with her controls. The pumpkin reversed and accelerated forward.
The goat lowered its head, and the robot pumpkin rammed its skull.
The goat shook its head, sniffed, and bit into the pumpkin.
“Nooooooooo!” Charlene howled.
The goat chewed meditatively.
“Get away from my pumpkin!” Charlene hurried forward, flapping her hands.
The goat took another bite, and Charlene snatched up the racer.
A man in overalls huffed down the road. He grabbed the goat’s collar. “Sorry about that.”
“He ate my racer!”
“She eats everything,” he said.
“We can replace the pumpkin,” I said.
Charlene shook her finger at him. “Your goat’s a menace. I’ll—”
I steered her toward Takako, who shook with laughter.
My stepmother wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. Is the robot mechanism damaged?”
“I guess not,” Charlene grouched.
“Ray might be in Pie Town.” I glanced in that direction. “Maybe he can take a look at it.”
“Later,” Charlene said. “I promised Takako we’d take her by the glass studio.”
My lips compressed. I needed to return to Pie Town. But I also wanted to talk to Charlene about that ghost, and the glass studio was only around the block. “Fine.”
We walked past the Lutheran church where I’d once planned to get married. I stifled a sigh—not about the broken engagement. Not really. But it was a beautiful church, tall, wooden, and white, painted with blue trim.
Since Pastor Hiller wasn’t howling in the fog, we turned right toward Main Street. Hay bales and pumpkins sat stacked around the iron lampposts, their flower baskets filled with autumnal blooms. Not a single shop window was pumpkin-free.
Behind a white lattice fence, a man in overalls and a straw hat carved pumpkins into elaborate faces. At a nearby table, children painted faces on pumpkins.
We paused in front of a set of shop windows filled with glass pumpkins and autumnal paperweights. A video in the window showed the glassmaker at work, creating a sapphire pumpkin.
Takako leaned closer to the window and gasped. “They’re beautiful.”
“They’ll be cheaper after the festival,” Charlene said. “You should stick around.”
The scent of baking pies wafted down the street. “And I need to get back to Pie Town. Takako, will you excuse me?”
“Of course. I’ll see you soon.”
“Thanks.” I gave Charlene a look that I hoped said follow me, and trotted back to my pie shop.
Another surge of customers had wedged themselves inside Pie Town. Their amiable chatter echoed off the linoleum floors and Formica tables.
Uniformed police officers skimmed through the crowd, delivering pies and collecting tips. I hoped they were making some good money for their Athletic League.
Dropping the sheet on my office desk, I tied on an apron and got to work, glancing at the door for Charlene.
She didn’t return.
At six, I turned the sign in the front window to CLOSED.
Officer Billings clapped my shoulder. “Nice job, Val. I think we made over a thousand bucks today for the League. We’ll see you tomorrow for an encore.” He and his fellow cops ambled out the door.
I surveyed the empty restaurant. Nothing looked busted, and we’d sold out. I couldn’t imagine a better day. But what had happened to Charlene?
My staff and I cleaned the restaurant and kitchen. Finally, Petronella, Abril, and Hunter left, and I finished up the floor, which was always the last thing to be cleaned.
The front door rattled beneath someone’s fist.
I started, dropping my mop.
On the other side of the glass, Charlene pointed at the lock.
I let her inside. “Where were you?”
“We took a pumpkin glassblowing class. Look!” She pulled a tiny cerulean pumpkin from the pocket of her knit jacket. “I made this one.” A curling, black vine coiled from the pumpkin’s top.
“That’s gorgeous.” Now I wanted to make a glass pumpkin. I shook myself. Later.
“Well, Countess Báthory was doing it—”
“Countess . . . you mean Marla?”
“Who else would I mean? I had to stick around and make sure she didn’t drain your stepmother’s blood.”
“I thought you two were going to put this rivalry behind you?” Charlene and Marla Van Horn had been one-upping each other since they were teenyboppers.
“We will. When I win.”
“How do you win a rivalry?” I asked.
“It’s like pornography,” she said. “I’ll know it when I see it.” She pocketed the glass pumpkin and pulled out her remote control. “And to start, I’ll win the pumpkin race tomorrow.”
There was a crash from the kitchen. The door bumped open and the half-eaten pumpkin robot rolled beneath the Dutch door.
I blew out my breath. “Come with me.”
Charlene and Robo-pum
pkin followed me into the office.
I plucked the sheet off my battered metal desk. “A ghost attacked me in the haunted house.”
“Attacked you?” She squinted. “Don’t you mean scared you?”
“I mean attacked. He swung a two-by-four at me and then ran away. He or she left the sheet in Tally-Wally’s front yard.”
“So, that’s where you went. Did Tally-Wally see anything?”
“No.”
We examined the sheet but didn’t find any clues. It was just a white sheet.
“Eight hundred thread count,” I said. “It seems a bit spendy to turn into a ghost costume.”
“It’s the sort of thing a man would do.” Charlene dropped the sheet on my desk. “But most men wouldn’t bother with such expensive sheets in the first place.”
“That’s a little sexist.”
Her white brows caterpillared downward. “What’s your point?”
“I’ve forgotten.”
“Why would someone attack you?” Charlene asked.
“Could someone we talked to about the murder have gotten nervous? It would narrow down the suspects, since we’ve only spoken to Dr. Levant’s husband and her medical partner.”
Charlene winced.
“What?” I asked. “Did you talk to someone else?”
“No, but Marla’s been blabbing all over town about the Baker Street Bakers investigating the murder. It was all I could do to put your wicked stepmother off the scent.”
“Charlene . . .” I said warningly.
“Fine. Takako’s awesome as applesauce.” She pointed at me. “But she can’t join the Baker Street Bakers. We’ve been lax with the rules in the past, but I draw the line at visiting steprelatives.”
No argument there. I didn’t want Takako anywhere near this investigation. “Fine. What exactly has Marla been saying?”
“The Baker Street Bakers are on the case, that sort of thing.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“She uses a tone. The point is, word’s gotten out we’re asking questions.”
My insides sank like a deflating soufflé. Had Chief Shaw heard? We’d skated too close to interfering in an investigation before. I tried to stay on the right side of the law, but Charlene was less persnickety. And if Shaw got wind of what we were doing, he’d use it to drop the hammer on Gordon again.
I untied my apron. “This could be a problem.”
She nodded. “You need to warn your detective.”
Chapter Eight
Gordon paced his condo, his muscular body tense and hard. Like Gordon, the condo was contemporary and minimalist. He crossed his arms over his ivory fisherman’s sweater. “Did you call the police? Because I know you didn’t call me.”
Sucking in my cheeks, I tossed the plastic bag containing the ghost’s sheet onto the leather couch. Unlike anything I owned, the couch was quality. It matched the cappuccino-colored floor. “He was long gone. There didn’t seem much point.”
He paused beside a gray, mid-century-modern chair. “At the very least, when you report it to the police, there’ll be a record of the attack at the haunted house.”
Sure. And also a notation that I was a hysterical female who’d misinterpreted a pre-Halloween prank. “I’ll call Chief Shaw,” I muttered and glanced at the gray-curtained window. I might as well go straight to the top and get the humiliation over with.
He nodded. “Thanks. Now, what Baker Street Bakering would inspire someone to attack you? Assuming this wasn’t a random prank.”
I tried not to stare at the fireplace, covered in narrow pieces of dark brown stone. In front of it stood a freestanding whiteboard covered with a blanket. The mystery of what was behind the blanket was too much for any Baker Street Baker to resist. I edged closer.
“I hate to join Team Charlene,” I said, “but I think it might have been Marla.”
“Marla Van Horn? Charlene’s friend? Why would she attack you?”
“She wouldn’t. Marla’s been talking about our amateur sleuthing into Dr. Levant’s murder. The wrong person may have overheard. Gordon, Shaw may have heard.”
“Shaw wouldn’t attack you.”
“No, but he might cause more problems for you.” I took another casual step toward the covered whiteboard.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “And I’ll have a word with Marla.”
I laughed hollowly. “Don’t tell her she’s putting us crossways of interfering in an investigation. That will just egg her on.”
A smile softened his features. “I’ll never get used to these small-town intrigues.”
“Get used to it? You grew up here.”
“And left as soon as I got the chance. I thought San Nicholas was boring. What an idiot I was.”
I canted my head. “So, what’s under the blanket?”
“Murder board.”
I waited expectantly.
He sighed. “Fine.” Gordon pulled the blanket from the whiteboard, and it folded to the floor.
A headshot of Dr. Levant in her white ophthalmologist’s coat had been taped to the center of the board. Down one side, Gordon had affixed a column of blurry photos from the murder scene.
It would be hypocritical for me to worry about Gordon investigating the murder he’d been told to stay out of. But his movements were quick and hurried, his muscles rigid, his voice sharper than usual. I’d never seen him this tense. But his uncle was a suspect; of course he was tense. So, I worried but said nothing.
Instead, I squinted at the crime-scene shots. “Charlene’s photos?”
“Yeah. Shaw won’t let me near the official police photographs.”
I walked to a map stuck to another corner. Magnetized pins marked the site where the body had been discovered, as well as Dr. Levant’s home and office, and other spots. “What are these?”
He stepped close enough for me to feel the heat coming off his body, and the pit of my stomach tingled.
“Homes of the other suspects,” he said, “except for her business partner, Tristan Cannon, who was setting up on Main Street, and her husband. Elon was at the haunted house. Everyone else claims they were at home.” He tapped a magnet pin on Main Street, just north of Pie Town. “No one’s got alibis.”
“Other suspects,” I said casually. “Like Alfreda Kuulik?”
“The receptionist who was fired? Yes.”
“Or Laurelynn Lelli?” I winced, because I hated ratting out someone selling my pies.
“Dr. Levant’s very own Marla? Yes.” He tapped a magnet.
Phooey—he already knew everything. I wasn’t helping at all.
He shot me a wry look. “And before you say it, Dr. Levant’s cousin, Denise Tatari, is a suspect too.” He touched another round, colored magnet.
“Her cousin?” The head pie judge was Dr. Levant’s cousin? I tried to remember what I’d said to Denise yesterday, but I knew condolences hadn’t been involved. She must have thought I was a jerk. But she hadn’t seemed in shock or mourning when I’d called. Was it possible she hadn’t known yet her cousin had died?
“The husband’s the most likely suspect,” he rumbled. “But according to Elon, Kara stipulated in her will that her portion of their grandparents’ inheritance should go to her cousin.”
“Not to Elon?”
“No. The grandparents’ estate isn’t a huge inheritance, but we can’t ignore Denise as a suspect. And of course, Elon gets the rest.”
“Is that why Shaw hasn’t brought Elon in for questioning yet?”
“Maybe.” He turned to the board and planted his broad hands on his hips.
“I need to get photos of the suspects on the board,” he muttered.
I coughed politely. “I suppose you’ll be sleuthing during the pie contest tomorrow?”
Gordon looked over his shoulder and quirked a brow. “Won’t you be?”
“With Denise as a judge, it does seem like an opportunity too good to waste,” I said. “Though I wonder if she’ll go ah
ead with the judging under the circumstances.”
He looped an arm around my waist and pulled me close.
“At least I’ll be able to keep an eye on you,” he said.
My stomach rumbled, and my face warmed.
He laughed. “I did promise dinner, didn’t I?” Gordon looked toward the sleek kitchen. It bled into the living room, the two spaces separated only by the leather couch.
“You know,” I said, “I haven’t had pizza in a dog’s age.”
His handsome face relaxed. “Pizza it is. I’ll make the call.”
While he phoned, I studied the murder board. It was loads more professional than the one Ray had once created using a dungeon map from a role-playing game.
Gordon stole up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Not the romantic evening you’d envisioned,” he said, wry.
I leaned against him, his warm breath tickling my neck. “I don’t need flowers and ocean views every night.” Especially since my tiny house overlooked the Pacific. “But don’t think you can take me for granted. Certain standards must be maintained.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He trailed a hand down my arm. “Is something bothering you?”
“Aside from finding a murder victim?”
“I guess that was a stupid question.”
“No, it’s not.” Especially when I was really concerned about him. But when you don’t want to tell the truth, tell a truth. “It’s Doran’s mother.”
“Doran’s—your stepmother?”
“I just can’t figure out why she’s here.”
“Presumably because of you and Doran.”
“Well, yeah,” I said, “but that can’t be the only reason.”
“Why not?”
“Something just seems . . . off.”
“Ah.” He turned me to face him. “You’re thinking she’s got an ulterior motive, that she and your father are two of a kind.”
“She’s not, though. And she’s nothing like my mother either.”
His dark brow arched like a cresting wave. “Should she be?”
“No,” I said, “of course not. Forget it. I’m babbling. There’s just been a lot going on.”
“Do you want me to do some checking?”
“No. You’ve got enough to deal with. Takako’s not at the heart of any conspiracy. That would put Doran in it too, and why am I even talking about conspiracies? She’s my . . . She’s Doran’s mom.”
Gourd to Death Page 7
