She swallowed. “It’s my father,” she said in a low voice. “He’s been arrested.”
“Arrested?” Marla bellowed.
Heads swiveled toward us.
“Are you sure he wasn’t just brought in for questioning?” I asked quietly.
Petronella shook her head. “I’m not sure about anything.”
“It’ll be fine,” I said. But my insides tensed. “Your dad was the victim here. His pumpkin was destroyed. More importantly, he’s got no connection to Dr. Levant.”
“But that’s the problem.” Petronella’s face contorted with misery. “He did. My parents live on the same street as the Levants. Dad was growing his giant pumpkins in the front yard—he said the soil was better. Dr. Levant complained to the city about them.”
“You can’t grow vegetables in your own front yard?” I asked. That couldn’t be right.
Petronella rubbed her slender arms and looked toward the door. “You can. And you know how San Nicholas is about pumpkins. But Dr. Levant complained it was attracting rats and was a nuisance—”
“Rats.” Graham’s hand clenched on his checked cap. “My neighbor’s ivy attracts ’em too.”
Petronella glanced his way. “Apparently, someone called in an anonymous tip. They said they’d seen my dad around the giant pumpkins the morning of... you know.”
There was a collective inhalation at the counter.
“Anonymous?” Tally-Wally said. Thumping his gnarled fist on the counter, he turned to Graham and Mr. Martins. “Just as we suspected.”
“Suspected?” I asked.
Petronella rubbed the back of her neck. “My mom’s freaking out. It’s probably nothing—just questions, but—”
“Of course,” I said. “Go. We can manage.”
“Thanks.” She whipped off her apron, handed it to me, and jogged out the front door.
“Looks like the Baker Street Bakers didn’t see that coming.” Marla sipped her coffee, her diamond rings glittering beneath the pink pendant lights.
“Shut it, Vampira,” Charlene said.
“It makes no sense,” I said. “Why would Petros destroy his own pumpkin? It lost him the prize money.”
“Maybe he realized he couldn’t win,” Marla said, “and decided to wreck it rather than lose.”
“Petros was passionate about pumpkins,” Graham said. “He’d never vandalize one of his own. Or anyone else’s.”
“What if he needed to kill Dr. Levant,” Marla said, “and was too honorable to use someone else’s contest entry?”
“You’re off your gourd if you believe that,” Charlene said.
My jaw tightened. If Chief Shaw had arrested Petros, then he either had information we didn’t, or he was . . . being Chief Shaw. We had to save Petronella and her family. “What did you mean by ‘just as we suspected’?” I asked Tally-Wally.
The oldsters at the counter looked at each other and fell silent.
“What?” I asked.
No one responded, and I looked to Charlene.
My piecrust specialist checked her gold watch. “Well, look at the time.” She adjusted Frederick around her neck. “I forgot I’ve got to be somewhere.”
“Whoops,” Graham said. “Me too.”
“Me three,” Tally-Wally said.
The counter emptied, the bell over the door tolling a dirge as all the senior citizens exited.
What had just happened? I puzzled over the vacant barstools. They were up to something, Charlene was in on it, and she wasn’t telling me.
That meant that whatever was going on was not good.
Not good at all.
Chapter Seventeen
From my spot behind the register, I glanced out Pie Town’s front windows. Mercury fog pressed against the glass and turned passersby into blurred silhouettes. In the corner booth, the gamers argued a fine point of dungeon etiquette.
It was nearly four o’clock—the dead hour. Lunch was long past, dinner too close to spoil. No one stopped by on their way home from work, because work wasn’t quite over yet. But where had Charlene gone? And how were Petronella and her father?
“Order up,” Abril called through the kitchen window.
I whirled, grabbing the plate—a mini turkey pot pie—and the ticket beneath it. Scanning the tables, I located the corresponding number tent. I whisked the pie to a construction worker, his steel-toed boots hooked behind the legs of his chair.
“Enjoy,” I said. “And be careful, it’s hot.”
“It had better be.” The construction worker grabbed a fork and cracked open the crust. Steam spiraled upward.
The phone in my apron pocket buzzed. Was Charlene finally returning my calls? Hastily, I drew it out. My shoulders slumped. Takako.
I answered and tried to force enthusiasm into my voice. “Hi, Takako. How’s Monterey?”
“I’m not in Monterey,” she whispered.
“Did you get back to the hotel early?”
She made an odd sound, almost a sob. “I lied. I didn’t go.”
“You don’t need to tell me where you’re spending time,” I said, baffled.
“This is terrible. There’s been a terrible—Oh, Val!”
My voice sharpened. “Takako? What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“I’m at the dog park and—”
“Takako?” I checked the phone. We’d been disconnected. I called her back.
Voice mail.
She was probably trying to call me right now. The fact she wasn’t answering likely didn’t mean anything.
But what if it did?
Lead weighting my gut, I dialed again. And again, my call went to voice mail.
I untied my apron and hurried behind the counter to the order window. “Abril?”
Her head popped into view. “Yes?”
“I got a weird call from Takako at the dog park. I’m worried something’s happened. It should be slow for the next thirty minutes or so, and then our evening customers will be buying whole pies to go. Can you manage the shop for a bit?”
Her brow creased. “Sure.” She disappeared from the window and hurried through the swinging door.
“Thanks. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”
I strode into my office. It was too cold today for my usual Pie Town hoodie, and I grabbed a thick, brown microfiber jacket off the back of my executive chair. Shrugging into the jacket, I hurried from the restaurant and down the foggy street.
I flipped up my hood, with its faux-fur trim. Low shapes rose and fell in the thick mist—a mailbox, a newspaper kiosk, a public bench.
Turning off Main Street, I wound through a quasiresi-dential area. Twisted cypress and eucalyptus trees stretched their gnarled branches above the road.
Why hadn’t Takako tried calling again?
I broke into a jog, stumbling once on the crooked sidewalk.
The chain-link fence surrounding the dog park emerged from the fog. Growls and sharp barks peppered the chill air.
“Takako?” I shouted.
“Over here!” Her voice cracked on the last word.
I found the gate and trotted into the dog park. “Takako?”
“Come quickly!”
Reorienting on her voice, I cut across the path.
Takako huddled beneath a cypress tree, her hands jammed into the pockets of a puffy black jacket. Her face was reddened and streaked with tears.
She wasn’t alone.
Mrs. Thistleblossom stood beside her. In one hand, the old woman held her black umbrella. In the other, she gripped the leash of the ugliest dog I’d ever seen. It stood shin high, with crossed eyes, bald spots, and wild tufts of gray fur. Tiny fangs jutted from its jaw in random directions.
The animal lunged at me.
“Milo!” the old woman said.
He growled and subsided.
“Takako,” I asked, “are you all right? What’s happened?”
She gulped and pointed a shaking finger at the wide base of the cypress.
> I turned.
The optometrist, Tristan Cannon, lay against the trunk. Blood streaked his skull. He stared, his jaw sagging open.
I gasped and moved toward him. “Oh my—”
Takako grabbed my arm. “He’s dead.”
I’d spoken with Tristan just the other day. He couldn’t be dead. But he clearly was. Swallowing, I tore my gaze from the man. “Have you called the police?”
“I didn’t,” Mrs. Thistleblossom said.
“No,” Takako said. “I didn’t . . . Look.” She pointed.
Near the hem of Tristan’s slacks, damp from the wet grass, lay a glass paperweight. Blood stained its oval shape. Within its clear glass, black bats burst from spirals of orange, black, and purple flames.
“It’s mine,” Takako whispered.
My voice shook. “You didn’t—”
“No.” She moaned. “Charlene said everything would be cheaper after the festival, and she was right. I bought a paperweight. That paperweight.”
I pulled out my phone. “Are you sure it’s yours?” It did look like one of the paperweights from the local glass factory, but they made a lot of similar designs. Halloween themes and pumpkins were popular this time of year.
“It looks like mine,” Takako said. “But Mrs. Thistleblossom and I arrived here at the same time. She knows I didn’t hurt anyone.”
“I know you didn’t hurt anyone when I was here.” Mrs. Thistleblossom raised her chin.
I dialed the police. “So, you can verify Takako’s story?”
“No. I have no idea what your stepmother is talking about.”
“What?” Takako cried. “We practically walked here together. We discovered him together!”
“That’s what you say. I didn’t see what you were up to earlier.”
“San Nicholas PD,” said a familiar woman’s voice. “How can I help you?”
“This is Val Harris.” My words came quick and fast and terrified. “I’m at the dog park. We’ve found a body—Tristan Cannon. It looks like he’s been killed.”
The woman sucked in her breath. “Val? It’s Helen. I’m sending someone right now. Don’t touch anything, and stay put.”
Life in a small town. I’d gotten to know the police dispatchers over pie and coffee.
I thanked her, hung up, and called Gordon.
“Val.” His voice rumbled through my belly. “What’s up?”
“My stepmother and Mrs. Thistleblossom found Tristan Cannon’s body in the dog park.”
“I did not!” Thistleblossom shouted. “She’s lying.”
Her dog howled.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Mrs. Thistleblossom is a hostile witness,” I sputtered.
“I’ll be right there,” he said. “Have you called the department?”
Sirens wailed.
“Yes,” I said. “They’re on their way.”
“So am I. You know the drill.” Gordon hung up.
Right. The drill. Take pictures for Charlene and now for Gordon too. But not in front of Thistleblossom. I didn’t trust her not to rat me out to Shaw.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing behind the old lady.
“What?” She turned.
Blindly, I aimed my phone in the body’s general direction and snapped photos, hoping at least one would be useful. “I guess it’s nothing.” I pocketed the phone.
“He was still warm.” Takako said unevenly. “The killer must have been nearby. If we’d gotten here sooner, we might have stopped him.”
Then if Mr. Scala was still at the police station, he was in the clear. He couldn’t have attacked Dr. Cannon. “What were you doing here at all?” I asked. “I thought you’d gone to Monterey today?”
“I was following her.” She pointed at Thistleblossom.
“Me?” Mrs. Thistleblossom pressed her leash hand to her chest. “How dare you!”
“You’re trying to intimidate Val.” My stepmother arched a brow. “I saw it through the window.”
Mrs. Thistleblossom sniffed. “Intimidate? Ridiculous.”
“Then what do you call that performance in Pie Town today?” Takako stepped closer to the old woman. Since they were roughly the same height, if Takako was trying to loom over her, she failed. “This isn’t my first rodeo. She’s trying to get in your head, Val.”
Not her first rodeo? My stepmother was an anthropologist. Or an archaeologist. Maybe that career was more exciting than I’d guessed. “But . . . you should have been in Monterey.”
“My hotel was too tempting. I slept in and decided to stay in San Nicholas.”
I nodded. The hotel really was amazing. Too bad I’d been banned after an incident with a hijacked golf cart.
“So, I went for a walk on the hotel grounds,” Takako continued, “and then I decided to come to Pie Town. That’s when I saw her.” Her voice hardened. “I wanted to know what she was up to.”
The sirens grew louder over the dog’s frantic barking.
“What was she up to?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Takako said. “It was a little disappointing.”
“This is outrageous.” Mrs. Thistleblossom huffed. “You brain this poor optometrist and try to divert attention from it with these wild tales—”
“Murder’s a serious accusation,” I said. “And false statements to the cops are punishable with jail time.”
The dog sniffed my shoelaces. I edged away in case it got any ideas.
Mrs. Thistleblossom blew out her breath. “I’m an old woman. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be. I can’t possibly be expected to confirm or deny her story.”
“Wait,” I said. “If you were following Mrs. Thistleblossom, how did you both arrive here at the same time?”
“Exactly!” The elderly woman crossed her arms, jerking the leash. The dog’s eyes bulged.
“I lost her in the fog,” Takako said, “and then I heard her dog scratching around. We both saw each other at the same time. I’d been caught, so I decided to brazen it out and pretend I was here for a walk. Then the fog cleared a bit, and there he was.” She motioned toward the corpse.
The dog gnawed on the hem of my jeans. Cars screeched to a halt in the street.
“Just tell the police the truth.” I glared at Mrs. Thistleblossom and shook the dog free. “All of it.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Chief Shaw, flanked by two uniformed cops, strode toward us. “Val Harris. Why aren’t I surprised?” He stopped short and studied the body. “Dammit.”
“I didn’t find the body,” I said. “I—”
He raised a palm. “No. Say no more. Gentlemen, separate the witnesses and take their statements, please.”
I gave my statement to an African-American cop I knew, Officer Sanders. He was a rhubarb-pie fan. The officer looked at me askance. “Why did your stepmother call you and not the police?”
I shifted my weight and grass squelched beneath my tennis shoes. “I’m not sure. She was pretty shaken up when I arrived. I don’t think she was thinking clearly.”
Gordon, in a navy fisherman’s sweater, strode through the fog. “Sanders. Val. What’s going on?”
Sanders clicked off the black plastic recording device at his jacket collar. “The chief is here,” he said warningly.
“And so’s Val,” Gordon said. “What have you got?”
Sanders angled his head toward a cluster of cops beneath the dripping cypress tree. “Tristan Cannon. Looks like homicide by paperweight.”
“Are we done?” I asked Officer Sanders.
“For now,” he said. “If we have more questions, we’ll be in touch.”
Gordon drew me aside. “Tell me what you know.”
“Takako thinks the paperweight that killed Dr. Cannon might be hers. It’s from that glassblower on Main Street.”
“How could the killer have gotten hold of it?” he asked.
Gordon believed Takako couldn’t have done this. My shoulders unknotted. “No idea. I’m assu
ming she kept it in her hotel room. But she might be wrong. You know once that glassblower gets a design he likes, he makes multiples.”
“Then all she has to do is produce her paperweight to prove it wasn’t the murder weapon.”
But Takako didn’t get the chance.
Shaw arrested my stepmother.
Chapter Eighteen
“I can’t believe you let them arrest my mother.” Doran fumed, pacing Pie Town’s checkerboard floor.
I clutched a sheaf of plastic menus to my chest. “Takako’s not under arrest,” I said. “She’s free.”
“Why’d they let her go?” Graham asked from the counter.
“Because she had no reason to kill anyone,” I said. Besides, the police had found Takako’s paperweight in her hotel room. The murder weapon wasn’t hers after all. Shaw might want to prefer arresting Takako to arresting his golfing partner, but he couldn’t ignore the facts.
“They raided her room.” Doran’s blue eyes flashed. “Shaw threatened her.”
In their corner booth, the gamers pretended not to hear Doran’s raised voice. The other Friday-morning regulars had no such compunction. They watched avidly.
“Shaw threatens everyone,” I said. “He just didn’t like that your mom called me before she called the police.”
“I don’t understand why either,” he grumbled.
“How’s she doing?” I asked meekly.
“She’s recovering in her hotel.”
I was a little jealous. The hotel’s ban on me was totally unfair.
Okay, mostly unfair.
Marla swiveled on her barstool at the counter. “The real question, is why Val and Charlene involved your mother in the first place.”
Doran crossed his arms over his black leather jacket. “Yeah. Why did you?”
“We didn’t! I mean, we didn’t ask her to. And she wasn’t. She told me she was . . .” I trailed off. This was starting to feel like tattling.
“Was what?” Doran’s dark brows curved downward.
“Takako’s her own woman,” Charlene said from the opposite end of the counter. It was as far as she could get from Marla. “And she’s an adult who makes her own decisions. She does what she wants to do.”
Draped over her shoulders, Frederick yawned.
“She didn’t want to get arrested!” Doran shouted.
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