Gourd to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  We tried the two pies. They were, indeed, the same, right down to the fluted pattern in the edge of the crusts. We huddled and agreed that pie number three should be disqualified, but I felt a hot flush. The Germans have a great word for feeling embarrassed on someone else’s behalf: fremdschämen. Even though I didn’t know who the culprit was, I felt that now. Who would cheat like that? The prize was only a ribbon.

  “We won’t announce there was a cheater,” Denise said. “Not to the public. I’ll talk to the entrant personally.”

  Denise gathered the scorecards, and Graham tallied the numbers.

  Ten minutes later, he stepped to the front of the stage and tapped on the mic. “And the winner is pie number six, baked by local detective Gordon Carmichael!”

  I clapped wildly. I’d known Gordon could cook, but it was the first time I’d tried one of his baked goods. He’d been hiding his talents.

  Mrs. Thistleblossom’s jaw sagged. She paled, then colored.

  Gordon shook hands with the other contestants. Heidi smiled graciously and wrung his hand between two of hers. When his back turned, Heidi stomped away, nose in the air. He glanced over his shoulder toward the gym owner, and his forehead creased. Then he bounded up the steps.

  Graham handed him a blue ribbon. “Now, the judges thought they detected whiskey in your pie. Were they correct?”

  “Yes,” Gordon said. “But the alcohol burns off during the baking.”

  Congratulations were conferred, hands were shook, and the crowd broke up.

  I made my way across the stage. “Denise,” I said in a low voice, “I didn’t get a chance to say anything earlier, but I’m so sorry about your cousin.”

  The judge looked down at the scorecards in her hands. “Thank you. It’s been . . . it’s been a shock. We grew up together. We were like sisters. I keep reaching for my phone to call her, and then I remember I can’t.”

  “Please, let me know what I can do to help,” I said, an ache growing in my throat. I still reached for my phone to call my mother.

  Denise shook her head, her mid-length hair falling into place about her shoulders. “There’s nothing. I mean, I don’t know, but—” She sucked in her cheeks. “Actually, there is something.”

  “Oh?”

  “My company is sponsoring the corn maze down the road.”

  “I love corn mazes.” I had a weakness for mazes of any sort, even labyrinths, which weren’t true mazes, since there was only one way in and out.

  “Then you should definitely come. We’ve got a pumpkin cannon and some other activities as well.”

  “A cannon that shoots pumpkins. Seriously?”

  One corner of her mouth lifted. “It’s a thing. The maze is open all month. But this Thursday, all the proceeds are being donated to Kara’s favorite charity. It provides vision treatment for low-income families. Would you come Thursday? And bring friends.”

  “Yes, of course.” It was the least I could do. I nodded toward the eyeglasses logo on her black jacket. “Is that your firm?”

  She tugged down her jacket, flattening the logo. “My baby. It may not be the height of fashion, but I can’t resist wearing my company jacket every chance I get.”

  I smiled, pointing to the Pie Town logo on my hoodie. “Trust me, I know how that is.”

  “You should join the Women’s Professional Networking Association. You’re a small business owner, like me. You’d fit right in to our local chapter.”

  Ugh. Meetings. “I don’t know,” I waffled. “I’m so busy.”

  “I get it. I once felt the same. But I found that they were really supportive. They didn’t just help me find business, they also cheered me on. They understand what small business owners go through. The long hours. The excitement. The stress.”

  “Wow. You really get me.”

  She laughed. “Are bakers’ hours as bad as they say?”

  “Nah. They’re worse.”

  She patted my arm. “Then think about it. They’re a group of smart, hardworking, interesting women. Our next meeting’s on Friday. Come as my guest.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  I turned, and Gordon was there.

  “If I kiss you,” he said, “will you be accused of favoritism?”

  “Probably.” I tugged lightly on his fisherman’s sweater. Standing on tiptoes, I brushed a kiss across his cheek. “Congratulations. Your pie was spectacular.”

  He pulled me closer, and I could feel the hard lines of his muscles against me. My heart thudded unevenly. “Maybe I’ll give you the recipe,” he said.

  “You’d do that for me?” I teased, breathless.

  “Val!” Takako barreled up the stage, Charlene in tow.

  My piecrust maker scowled in her brown-and-white striped leggings and a burnt-orange knit jacket. A pumpkin beanie rested on her curling white hair.

  “Congratulations,” Takako said to Gordon. “I sampled your pie. It really was the best.”

  “This is my, uh, stepmother,” I said, stumbling over the word. “Takako Harris.”

  He shook her hand.

  Takako pointed to her orange-and-black Pie Town hoodie. “I’m telling everyone about Pie Town.”

  “Thanks. How was the pumpkin race?” I asked Charlene.

  My piecrust specialist scowled. “I lost!”

  “Oh, no,” I said. We were never going to hear the end of this.

  “Ray swore we would win.” Charlene fumed. “Stupid robot. It was never the same after the goat attack.”

  “Goat?” Gordon asked.

  “After the ghost attack,” Charlene said.

  “Ghost?” Takako asked.

  “You were able to replace the pumpkin,” I said, “weren’t you?” We hadn’t told Takako about the ghost in the haunted house. I didn’t want to worry her.

  “Of course, I replaced the pumpkin,” Charlene said. “It wouldn’t have qualified with only a half-eaten pumpkin.”

  “Did Marla win?”

  “Her? No. Her solar-powered pumpkin didn’t budge. Not enough sun today. The fog is good for vampires, bad for solar cells.”

  “Then who won?” I asked.

  “That diabolical Brinks kid.”

  “Diabolical?” Brinks was the universe’s vengeance on all the childhood pranks Charlene had ever played. The kid had TP’d her house, egged her picket fence, and made fun of her cat.

  In fairness, I made fun of Frederick too, just not within earshot of Charlene.

  “And guess who let that goat loose from the petting zoo?” Charlene asked. “Brinks.”

  “He couldn’t possibly have known the goat would go for your pumpkin,” I said. “The streets are littered with pumpkins.”

  Charlene folded her arms. “Oh, you think so? Because it gets worse. I have it on good authority the Brinks kid didn’t even make his own racer. His father built it.”

  Uh-huh. “Didn’t Ray make your—?”

  “I hear you had some excitement here,” Charlene said quickly.

  “Mrs. Thistleblossom.” Takako made a rueful face. “Charlene had her number, all right.”

  I pulled away from Gordon. “Had her number? What do you mean?”

  She glanced sidelong at Charlene. “We followed her this morning to a bakery on the Peninsula.”

  “I drove,” Charlene said.

  Gordon shook his head. “I shouldn’t be hearing this.”

  Whoa. Mrs. Thistleblossom was the cheater?

  “There’s my uncle Petros,” Gordon said. “I promised to buy him a pumpkin beer. His archrival won the giant pumpkin contest and won’t shut up about it.”

  “Go. Buy beer,” I said. “I’ll see you around.”

  He hopped from the stage.

  I turned to my stepmother. “You two—?”

  “Caught Thistleblossom red-handed,” Charlene said.

  “So, you narced on her?” I asked, disbelieving. I looked to my stepmother. “Is that where you went during the judging?”

  “No, I went to the
ladies’ room,” Takako said.

  Charlene’s head reared up. “Narc? No way. Snitches get stitches.”

  A family in pumpkin beanies like Charlene’s edged past the stage.

  “We thought we were following her to something more nefarious this morning,” Takako said. “We thought she was buying more spray chalk.”

  “You think Thistleblossom tagged my van?” The graffiti’s archaic language fit, but she seemed a little old for pranks.

  “I don’t know which judge figured out she was cheating,” Charlene said, “but we didn’t tattle.”

  “I’m a little hurt you would think we would do that to her,” Takako said. “Mrs. Thistleblossom is over a hundred.”

  “Only the good die young,” Charlene grumbled.

  “Did Mrs. Thistleblossom see you following her?” I asked.

  Charlene rubbed her chin. “She might have.”

  “She was cursing and shaking her fist,” Takako said. “I’m pretty sure she saw us.”

  “Does she know you didn’t rat her out to the judges?” I asked.

  The two older women looked at each other, at me.

  I scraped a hand through my hair. Oh boy. What were the odds of this ending well?

  Chapter Ten

  “So, let me get this straight,” I said. “Mrs. Thistleblossom saw you two spying on her at the bakery. She knows we’re friends. And the first time I judge the contest, she gets booted for cheating.”

  Charlene flattened her pumpkin beanie with both hands. “You’re right. You’re screwed.”

  “I’m sure she’ll understand you had nothing to do with it.” Takako tugged at the collar of her orange-and-black hoodie. “We’ll talk to her for you.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Charlene said. “Let’s give Thistleblossom time to cool off.”

  In other words, avoid the problem. “Thanks.” And why were Takako and Charlene going off on spy missions without me? My stomach burned with an unfamiliar sensation.

  I made my way to the stage steps. My hands were oddly damp on the cool metal railing. Mrs. Thistleblossom might look like a crone out of the Brothers Grimm, but she wasn’t going to put a curse on me. Right?

  A woman in a green, medieval-looking gown walked up the steps. She carried scrolls beneath one arm. I guessed she was the storyteller, armed with pumpkin-themed fairy tales.

  Charlene grabbed my arm. “That’s Alfreda Kuulik.”

  I took another look at the storyteller, adjusting the folds of her skirt. “She doesn’t look anything like Alfreda.”

  “Not her! Her! ” Charlene pointed.

  The ophthalmologist’s receptionist stood in front of a stall selling tea. She was a tall, big-boned brunette. Her straight hair stopped at her jaw, emphasizing its squarish shape.

  “We should talk to her,” I said.

  “Talk to her?” Takako asked. “An interview? You are investigating the murder.”

  “Val is.” Charlene leaned forward on the toes of her high-tops and made a “get-over-here” gesture at Ray.

  The red-headed engineer blanched. He ducked behind a taco truck.

  “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, engineer.” Charlene trotted down the wobbly steps. They rattled metallically beneath her sneakers. “Get back here!”

  I frowned after her, but the four horsemen of the apocalypse were not thundering down Main Street. Charlene was turning down a chance to interview a witness? She could yell at Ray any old day, but suspects were hard to come by. My piecrust maker must really be mad about losing that race.

  “Let’s hurry before we lose your suspect.” Takako nudged my arm.

  “Oh, right.”

  We trotted down the stage steps and made our way to the tea booth.

  Eyes closed, Alfreda sniffed an open Mason jar filled with brown leaves the color of her long coat. Bits of orange flecked the tea.

  “Alfreda?” I asked.

  She turned, her cornflower eyes widening, then narrowing. “Sorry. I know I know you, but I can’t remember . . .”

  “I’m Val Harris, from Pie Town. I came in for an eye exam a few months ago. I’m not surprised you don’t remember me. This is my, um, this is Takako Harris.”

  Takako, dwarfed by the taller woman, pumped her hand. “How nice to meet a friend of Val’s. I’m so sorry to hear about Dr. Levant. I understand you were her receptionist.”

  Had I told Takako about Alfreda’s relationship to Dr. Levant, or that she’d been fired? I didn’t think so. That left Charlene as the leaker, or else Takako had done her own investigating.

  Alfreda’s square jaw tightened. “I was the office manager.” Carefully, she recapped the jar. “It so happened that my desk was at reception.”

  “That must have kept you busy,” I said. “What a shock for you now that she’s gone. How are you holding up?”

  “I have bigger problems to worry about,” Alfreda said coolly. She set the jar on the table, and the tea seller passed the tea to another potential customer. “I no longer work for Kara. Though I’m sure Dr. Cannon is taking it hard.”

  “Why?” Takako asked. “Were they close? Were they having an affair? Did her husband know?” She colored and pinched her lips shut.

  I froze. Takako! As Gordon frequently reminded me, I was not a professional investigator. But even I knew better than this.

  Alfreda’s fair brow wrinkled. “Um, no, I mean, I don’t think so. I don’t think they were—What exactly are you asking?”

  “I think the town is trying to figure out who would have done such a thing,” I said, hoping she’d offer some ideas.

  “Small towns are far too nosy for their own good,” Alfreda said. “People should leave it to the police.”

  “Have the police spoken with you?” I asked.

  “Did they take you to the police station?” Takako asked. “They didn’t accuse you of killing her, did they?”

  I smothered a groan. Alfreda would never talk now.

  Alfreda’s high cheekbones pinked. “No, of course not!”

  “Of course not,” I echoed, laughing uneasily. “Not when there are so many other, more likely suspects.”And please tell me who they might be.

  Alfreda folded her arms over her long, brown coat. “It was nice seeing you again, Val,” she said in a voice that made it plain it hadn’t been nice at all. She nodded to my stepmother and moved to leave.

  “I’m hiring!” I said, desperate.

  Alfreda turned. “For what?”

  “Cashier. You should come in for an interview.”

  Her smile was brief. “I’m not sure that’s a good fit for me.” She disappeared into the crowd.

  Takako groaned. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  “Interrogate a murder suspect?”

  “Interrogate her so badly.” She clutched her hair at the roots. “I’m an anthropologist. I know how to conduct an interview, and I just spewed accusations. I was clumsy and inattentive and . . . Val, I’m sorry. Everything I do to help . . . Did I ruin your investigation?”

  “No.” My annoyance evaporated in the face of her obvious regret. And who was I to criticize? I was no more than a nosy amateur. “It’s fine. What did you think of Alfreda?”

  We walked through the crowd.

  “She makes a good murder suspect,” Takako said slowly. “Did you notice how big and strong she is? It would have made maneuvering that giant pumpkin easier.”

  “Hmm. I wonder how much strength was needed to get it into the forklift’s straps.” I’m not sure I could have figured out how to even use a forklift.

  “I hope you weren’t serious about hiring her,” Takako said.

  “Not after those posts she wrote about her old employer. But it seemed like a way to keep her talking and maybe bring her back for more.”

  “At least you were thinking. Please don’t tell Doran about this. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Mum’s the word.”

  We returned to Pie Town. The dinin
g area heaved, every pink booth filled. The line at the register edged out the front door.

  Uniformed cops moved through the crowd delivering pie. This was an all-hands-on-deck situation, and guilt bit me hard. I should have been here instead of faffing around the festival.

  I hugged Takako. “I have to get to work.”

  “I know.” She reached up and patted my cheek. “You’re a hard worker. Good luck today.” Takako zipped up her Pie Town hoodie, and we said our good-byes.

  Grimacing, I hurried into the kitchen.

  Petronella bustled past in her usual black goth jeans and long-sleeved tee. She slid a turkey pot pie and side salad into the order window.

  “Have you seen Charlene?” I snapped on my hairnet.

  “No. Not since you left for the contest.” She grinned. “I hear my cousin won.”

  “Gordon deserved to win.” I slipped a Pie Town apron over my head and tied it behind my back. “And it was a blind tasting,” I said, more defensively than strictly necessary.

  Petronella sobered. “At least one person in our family did well this pumpkin festival.”

  “I’m sorry about your father’s pumpkin.” I pulled an order ticket from the wheel for two slices of pumpkin pie. “All that work, wrecked in a morning.”

  “And in such an awful way. He was really embarrassed about going on and on about the pumpkin when there was a dead woman under it. But I think the pumpkin was all he could focus on. And on top of everything, he thinks it made him look guilty in front of Shaw.”

  I glanced sidelong at her. “Shaw can’t believe your father or Gordon had anything to do with the murder.” I plated the pumpkin pies and slid them through the window with the ticket.

  Petronella’s mouth pressed into a tight line. She grabbed a ticket from the wheel.

  I adjusted my apron. “Wait! Shaw doesn’t think that, does he?”

  “Who knows?” she asked, her voice brittle. Petronella plated a slice of pecan pie. “He keeps coming back to my parents’ house with more questions. I heard he’s been talking to the winner, Farmer John, too.” She smiled bitterly. “That’s the only bright spot for my father. Farmer John might get busted for sabotaging his pumpkin. He and my dad don’t get along.”