Gourd to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  I grabbed another order ticket. “But Farmer John wouldn’t have killed a woman because of a pumpkin competition with your dad. That would be insane.”

  “No, but for forty thousand dollars, he might have seen the body and dropped my dad’s pumpkin on it.”

  “Maybe.” I plated a slice of pumpkin chiffon and a slice of maple-pumpkin pie. Sliding them into the order window, I grabbed another ticket. “But it still seems a little extreme.”

  “You don’t know Farmer John. I mean, who calls themselves Farmer John?”

  “Yeah, that is a little weird.” I sliced a Wisconsin harvest pie and plated two slices.

  Work did not keep my mind off the murder, even if the ticket wheel stayed nightmarishly full. No sooner did I rip a ticket from one of the clips, than the wheel spun and another ticket was added. As much as the thought of all the money we were making delighted me, it was getting stressful.

  Charlene ambled into the kitchen an hour later. Removing her pumpkin beanie, she pulled out a black hairnet from the pocket of her knit jacket. She tugged it over her snowy hair. “What’s Thistleblossom doing here?”

  “Is she here?” Didn’t matter. I shook my head. “Forget Mrs. Thistleblossom. Where have you been?” It didn’t take that long to yell at Ray for losing her the pumpkin race.

  “Thistleblossom’s probably stuffing disposable diapers down your toilet right now.”

  I swallowed. Maybe I should check the ladies’ room. “What have you been up to?”

  She flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the sleeve of her orangey jacket. “Breaking into Alfreda Kuulik’s apartment.”

  My chest hitched. “You what? Without me?”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “This is murder,” I whisper-shouted.

  She rubbed her brown-and-white striped sock with the toe of her high-top. “Besides, I knew you’d be keeping Alfreda busy. After Ray and I had our little chat, it seemed like the perfect opportunity.”

  “You broke—Charlene, that’s illegal! And I wasn’t talking to Alfreda that long. You could have been caught. Why didn’t you at least call me first?” Not that I’d have been able to talk her out of it, but it would have been nice to try.

  “I knew you’d keep your interrogation brief,” she said, “so I moved fast.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “You’d never leave Pie Town that long in the middle of the pumpkin festival. You’re responsible.” She said it like it was a bad thing.

  “I left to judge the pie contest,” I said.

  “Which was a promotion for Pie Town.”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “Face facts. You’re a slave to Pie Town.”

  “Pie Town’s a start-up. Of course, I work hard.”

  She rubbed her neck and avoided my gaze. “This pie shop is nearly a year old. It’s not a start-up anymore.”

  “That’s still—”

  “Anyway, I didn’t break in. Not technically.” She unsnapped her jacket, exposing the brown tunic beneath. “Everyone knows Alfreda keeps her key under the potted jade plant.”

  Steamed, I returned to plating pies. “Good thing you were quick. We talked to her for five minutes, tops, not even long enough for you to ream out Ray, who by the way is one of our best customers.”

  My metal spatula clattered against the plate.

  “But it was long enough for me to find this.” Charlene reached into her pocket and slapped a photograph on the metal counter. A smiling Alfreda wearing a hard hat was surrounded by a group of men in front of a forklift. “Alfreda used to work for a construction company.”

  Whoa. That was real evidence. Evidence we couldn’t use or share with Gordon, because it had been obtained illegally.

  “Alfreda might have known how to use that forklift,” she continued.

  I blew out my breath and plated a caramel-apple pie. “Did you hear Farmer John won the giant pumpkin contest?”

  “His pumpkin was in the parade yesterday,” Charlene said. “Everyone knows he won. And that he’s in the pocket of those so-and-so’s in San Adrian.”

  “How can he possibly be in a town’s pocket?”

  “He may live north of here, but he’s got a pumpkin farm in San Adrian. Farmer John was a driving force behind their festival. Mark my words, he’s going to win their contest too, making ours seem even more irrelevant. But steps will be taken.”

  Uh-oh. Maybe I should have paid more attention to the pumpkin plotters in Pie Town. “San Nicholas is loads more charming than San Adrian,” I said, trying to divert her. “The committee outdid themselves this year. Country bands. Pumpkin folktales. Making all the vendors sell at least one pumpkin product. Our haunted house is in an old jail!”

  “In a barn behind the old jail.”

  “The point is, San Nicholas has a special vibe. Our pumpkin festival will always be popular.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “And what were you doing with Takako last night?”

  She raised a white brow. “You don’t think I’d let a stepmother come crashing into your life without figuring out why, did you?”

  “You—oh.” That was . . . sweet, in a Charlene sort of way. My stomach warmed, a pleasant feeling this time. “So, what did you find out?”

  “Nothing. But I will. What did you learn from Alfreda?” Charlene asked.

  “Our talk with Alfreda was a bust.”

  “Nothing? You got nothing?”

  I held the pie plate between us like a shield. “We—I blew it.” Shame on me for wanting to throw Takako under the bus. The buck stopped at the bakery. “Alfreda stormed off, righteously indignant.”

  “Ah, well,” she said philosophically. “It’s no secret you’re no great shakes as an interrogator.”

  “What? I can interrogate people.” I slid a cherry pie through the window. “I just had an off morning.”

  She patted my arm. “Sure you did.”

  “Judging the pies was stressful!” I knew Charlene was only trying to get my goat, and she was succeeding.

  “We’ll revisit Alfreda Kuulik together, and you can show me how it’s done.”

  “I will,” I said. I could salvage the interview.

  Somehow.

  Chapter Eleven

  Monday, my day off, I should have been sleeping in.

  But that morning, I got up at my usual early hour and drove to Pie Town. I parked in the alley, murky in the predawn light, and walked around the corner to Main Street.

  Men with push brooms swept hay and broken pumpkin shells from the damp street. The vendor stands had been taken down overnight. All that remained were stray hay bales, the denuded bandstand, and giant spiderwebs. The mayor had vowed to keep the webbing up through Halloween.

  My footsteps echoed on the sidewalk. I inhaled, catching the faint tang of salt in the October air. The world was still and quiet, and patches of fog spiraled down the street. I loved this hour, but I shivered in the lonely gloom.

  At the north end of Main Street, where the pumpkin weigh-in had taken place, I paused. Any evidence from Dr. Levant’s murder had to be long gone. But I scanned for clues anyway, hood pulled over my head, my hands in the pockets of my Pie Town hoodie.

  Graham, in overalls that strained across his round belly, swept hay. The forklift and flatbeds and pumpkins were gone, along with any suggestion a woman had died here.

  The elderly man leaned on his broom and adjusted his cabbie’s hat. “What are you doing here at this hour? Shouldn’t you be sleeping in today?”

  “It’s my first pumpkin festival,” I said. “I wanted to see how it ended.”

  “If you listen to those San Adrian folks, it doesn’t. It just continues next weekend in their town.” He shook his broom at me. “Have you seen their flyers?”

  I sighed. I got that San Nicholas didn’t like their new competition, but maybe it was time to let it go? “No. Do you know what the festival numbers were this year compared to last?”

>   “Exactly the same, and that’s not a good sign.” He scowled. “The population in this area is growing. Our festival should have grown too.”

  “Maybe slow growth isn’t so bad,” I said tentatively. “If it weren’t for the cops working Pie Town for tips, we would have been overwhelmed.”

  “It isn’t slow growth, it’s no growth. I’ll bet the murder scared off the kids.”

  Or their parents.

  He grimaced. “Well, we’ll find out in December. With our name, San Nicholas has got a lock on the Christmas festival.”

  My ex-fiancé had brought me to the San Nicholas Christmas Festival last December. The vendor stalls had been modeled after Munich’s Christmas market. Santa’s Village–themed fun for the young and young at heart, plus twinkle lights. Lots and lots of twinkle lights. I’d already started planning a Christmas pie menu for December.

  “You okay?” Graham asked. “You’ve got a funny look on your face.”

  “Sorry. I was daydreaming.” I gazed at the straw-littered pavement, and my shoulders hunched. “It’s hard to believe someone was killed here three days ago.”

  “Dr. Levant wasn’t killed here. She was killed in front of the haunted house and her body brought here.”

  I goggled at him. The haunted house? Where Elon had been working? He had to be Shaw’s prime suspect. Means, motive, and opportunity. “What? Are you sure? How do you know?”

  He tapped his cabbie’s hat. “I deduced. The cops are swarming the old jail this morning, and there’s no ambulance there, which means there’s no second body.”

  “Thanks.” I hurried to the historic jail. Yellow police tape marked off the street in front of the square, adobe building.

  Crime scene techs in white suits squatted in front of hay bales and knelt beside a patch of driveway. One scraped at something with what looked like a plastic knife.

  Cold wriggling in my gut, I stopped behind the tape and scanned the scene.

  Chief Shaw strutted back and forth shouting orders. “Under every piece of straw!” He clutched a plastic bag with something metal and rusted inside—a wrench?

  Noticing me, his brows slashed downward. “Ms. Harris.”

  “Hello, Chief Shaw. I was, um, taking a walk.”

  “And decided to be a nosy neighbor.”

  “Has something happened?” So, yes, I was being a nosy neighbor.

  “Nothing new.”

  Graham had been right. This did have to do with Kara Levant’s murder. “Is this where Dr. Levant was killed?”

  “Why would you think that?” he asked sharply.

  I motioned to the suited techies. “You said this wasn’t about anything new. And the only old crime that would call for this level of analysis was Dr. Levant’s murder. Is that a wrench you’re holding?”

  He hid it behind his back and thrust out his chest. “I warned you about interfering. Detective Carmichael has given you and your little crime-solving club wide latitude. But don’t think I share his attitude. And I am in charge of this investigation.”

  I backed away. “Right. Right. Sorry. I heard the fund-raiser for the Police Athletic League went well.”

  His expression flickered. “Over five thousand dollars. People were very generous.”

  “Maybe we can do it again during the Christmas festival?”

  He aimed his finger at me. “Changing the subject?”

  “Trying to.”

  “Don’t think you can bribe me with social goodwill. And stay away from my crime scene!”

  “I won’t. I mean, I will.” Scuttling away, I hurried into the alley.

  I unlocked Pie Town’s metal kitchen door and darted inside. Gray morning light filtered through the skylights and layered the kitchen in cobwebby shadows. I shut the door behind me. The lock clanged, comforting.

  Not that I was nervous or anything.

  Suddenly, I remembered a moment when I’d thought I’d been alone in Pie Town and had been horribly wrong. Heart rabbiting, I flipped on the lights. The kitchen gleamed, knives stuck to their wall magnets, utensils twinkling in their containers. The room smelled faintly of cleaning supplies.

  Quietly, I pushed open the swinging door and peered into the empty dining area. I walked inside. The pink booths and barstools were empty. No criminals waltzed across the black-and-white floor.

  No one was here.

  My neck muscles relaxed.

  I ran my hand along the back of a pink booth. Sometimes I still had to pinch myself to believe I’d done it, that this tiny kingdom of pie was all mine. Yes, I worked hard. I’d do whatever it took to keep my dream—and my mother’s—alive. My eyes grew hot. Did my mom know I’d done it? Was she somewhere, watching?

  I sniffed and shook myself. She knew. I might not believe in ghosts, but I believed in her.

  Something creaked behind me.

  I spun to face the counter.

  No one was there.

  Of course, no one was there. It was only the sound of the old building settling.

  Maybe Charlene was right. Maybe I was working too hard. Maybe it was making me paranoid, prone to flights of fancy.

  So what if I lived beside a cemetery? So what if Mrs. Thistleblossom had been making weird, spell-casting gestures in my direction? I wasn’t Charlene. And I didn’t believe in the paranormal.

  I paced to my austere office and edged the door open. The room was dark and quiet, and I switched on the lights. The cheap fluorescents hummed, illuminating the battered metal desk, my dingy desktop computer, the utilitarian metal shelves lined with supplies.

  I jerked open the door of the walk-in supply closet. No one lurked inside.

  I’d once slept in this closet, before Charlene had come through with her tiny house. In the choice between paying rent and paying staff, the staff had won. The staff and Pie Town would always come first.

  I sat in my “lightly used” executive chair and booted up my computer. We couldn’t share Charlene’s stolen photo of Dr. Levant’s ex-office manager. They’d know she’d broken into Alfreda’s apartment. But Alfreda was job hunting now, and her résumé might be online. That could prove she’d once worked at a construction firm, so we wouldn’t need Charlene’s contraband.

  I clicked over to a professional job-hunting site and searched for Alfreda Kuulik. Pay dirt. She’d updated her résumé recently, and it included her time working as a receptionist for the construction firm called Builder Gorilla. Forklift driver wasn’t listed as one of her talents though.

  I searched for the construction company. They had a simple Web site, but it told me enough. Builder Gorilla was a small operation. In my experience, at small companies, everyone ended up doing pretty much everything. But that didn’t mean Alfreda had pitched in driving forklifts, only that she’d had access to them at one time.

  Was Denise’s software company on the site too? I did a quick search, and discovered it was. I scanned the page.

  ABOUT US

  OphthaSoft Solutions provides the leading cloud-based software for your eye-care practice, simplifying your work so you can spend time on what you’re passionate about—care for your patients.

  We are a community-based close corporation of eye-care professionals. OphthaSoft understands your needs. Contact us today for a free demo.

  Not helpful.

  Graham had mentioned he’d seen photos of Denise on social media. Fortunately, she’d set her privacy to open, and I was able to view the photos on her page. She’d recently gone skydiving right here in the Bay Area. I shuddered. No way, no how. Maybe we didn’t have as much in common as I’d thought.

  “Hey.”

  I jumped, my chair rattling backward and banging against the wall. “Charlene!” I clutched my chest.

  In a purple knit jacket and green tunic, she leaned into my office. Her cat, Frederick, draped around her neck in a fluff of polar white. “Jumpy, aren’t you? What are you doing here on a Monday?”

  “Research.” I motioned toward the computer.

&
nbsp; “Don’t you have one of those at home?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “It’s not healthy to spend so much time here,” she said.

  My gaze flicked to the aging ceiling tiles. Yeah, yeah, yeah. “Did you see what’s going on in front of the jail?”

  She nodded. “Dr. Levant must have been killed there, and her body moved to the giant pumpkins.”

  “But why? Why not just leave her at the jail? There weren’t many people on Main Street at that hour, and it was foggy, but moving the body was still a risk. The killer might have been spotted.”

  “Either someone moved the body to make a statement,” she said, “or they moved her because leaving the doctor there would implicate the killer.”

  Elon. “Shaw’s going to have to bring her husband in for questioning.”

  “Does he?”

  I pushed my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, and my chair squeaked on the cheap linoleum floor. “Elon Levant was working at the haunted house. And Dr. Cannon said he’d thought Elon was going to be at the optometry stall that morning, helping set up. Where exactly was Elon when his wife died?”

  “We don’t know exactly when Dr. Levant died. But Gordon might.”

  “I’ll ask, but Shaw’s keeping him out of the loop. In the meantime, we should talk to Elon,” I said, reluctant.

  “We need to have hard talks with all our suspects,” Charlene said. “The festival’s over. It’s time we get down to the important business. Murder.”

  Keeping my staff employed and myself fed was important, but I nodded. I wasn’t looking forward to paying a condolence call on the grieving widower. It could only be awkward, since I didn’t really know the man. But there were alternate sources of intel.

  “Do you think Laurelynn’s working at her pumpkin patch today?” I asked. Dropping a pumpkin on Kara’s body had to mean something. Laurelynn and Kara’s old high school rivalry might have been nothing, like Elon had said. But it created a connection between the women. Laurelynn might know something about the eye doctor’s death. And the meaning of the pumpkin.

  “Of course, she’s at her patch,” Charlene said. “Where else would she be?”