Gourd to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  Marla blew on her coffee. “Well, she did find a murder victim and then delay reporting it. What do you expect?”

  “Cannon was a good man.” Graham shifted on his barstool. “He got me my reading glasses.”

  “If you trained your eyes,” Tally-Wally said from beside him, “you wouldn’t need glasses, like me. Look.” He rolled his eyes and made exaggerated, blinking movements.

  Graham harrumphed. “Balderdash! Don’t think I haven’t noticed you squinting at menus, which, by the way, you hold at arm’s length. The reason you like this place so much is because you can use distance vision for the chalkboard.” He pointed at the menu on the wall, where we listed the day’s specials.

  “I like the coffee,” Tally-Wally said.

  “No one likes the coffee,” Marla said.

  What was wrong with my coffee?

  “Forget the coffee,” Charlene said. “Another person’s been murdered. Something stinks at that optometry office.”

  “Obviously,” Marla said, “that receptionist they fired is the killer.”

  “Office manager,” I corrected absently. Maybe I should get better coffee.

  “I heard Cannon was hit with a paperweight from that glass shop,” Tally-Wally said. “Maybe the glassblower did it.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” Charlene glanced at me. I’d shown her the photos I’d taken and told her about the murder weapon, but she’d never blab. He hadn’t heard it from Charlene.

  “Old Thistleblossom’s been telling people all over town,” Tally-Wally said.

  “Why would a glassblower kill two optometrists?” Charlene asked.

  “Maybe his vision was failing,” Tally-Wally said, “and they couldn’t help him. With the prospect of losing his ability to blow glass, he killed them both.”

  Graham swiveled on his stool and slapped one beefy hand on the counter. “Are you kidding me? Smokey wears contacts!”

  “The glassblower’s name is Smokey?” Doran shook his head, a shock of near-black hair falling across one eye. “Never mind.”

  “It was the receptionist,” Marla singsonged.

  “If Wrongstradamus thinks so,” Charlene said, “I know Alfreda’s innocent.” But she frowned.

  “What if Thistleblossom did it?” Graham asked.

  Silence fell along the counter.

  “She’s a little short to be bashing tall fellows like Cannon on the head,” Tally-Wally said.

  “She could have thrown the paperweight,” Graham said. “Maybe she got confused, thought she was throwing a ball to that ugly mutt of hers.”

  The bell over the front door jingled, and we all turned to look.

  As if summoned, Mrs. Thistleblossom stumped into the restaurant. The scent of mildew rose like an unquiet ghost from her black coat. Her dog nipped at the cloth.

  Thumping her cane, she marched to a table near the center of the room. The dog tracked muddy paw prints on the linoleum. She sat, and her dog sprang onto the chair opposite. It drooled through crooked teeth.

  The plastic menus crinkled against my chest. “The coffee’s . . .” I’d started to say “self-serve,” but what was the point? She was over a hundred. I wasn’t going to make her get her own coffee. Or complain about her dog, muddying up my chair—not with Frederick hanging off Charlene like a stole. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Black,” she said.

  Cowed, I poured her a mug and set it on her table. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No.”

  I sidled back to the counter. Surreptitiously, I poured a splash of coffee into a mug and sipped it. It tasted okay to me.

  Doran hissed. “My mother—”

  I handed Marla the mug. “Let’s talk in my office,” I said, shooting a glance at Mrs. Thistleblossom. I didn’t mind airing the family laundry in front of our regulars, but I didn’t trust Thistleblossom. Not after she’d tried to throw Takako under the bus yesterday.

  “What do you want me to do with this?” Marla set the mug on the counter. “I’m not the kitchen help.”

  Doran didn’t budge from his spot. “I shouldn’t have yelled.” He blew out his breath and raked both hands through his mop of hair. “I know this isn’t your fault. Mom’s going to do what she’s going to do. But this was exactly what I was worried about when she turned up. She doesn’t believe anything bad will ever happen, even after . . .” He grimaced.

  “After our father?” I asked in a low voice.

  At the counter, Graham and Tally-Wally nodded sagely to each other.

  “No,” Doran said. “After she’s nearly gotten killed in countless war zones and dicey countries for her stupid job.”

  “Spy?” Marla asked.

  “Archaeologist,” he said.

  “I thought she was an anthropologist?” Charlene said.

  “You wouldn’t believe the crazy crap my mother’s done,” he said. “And because she’s gotten away with it so far, she thinks nothing bad will ever happen. She’s relentless.”

  “I get it,” I said. “And I’m starting to understand how you felt when I was trying too hard, pressuring you to be my family. It’s exhausting.”

  His head reared backward. “What’s wrong with my mom?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “She’s great. I’m just saying, new family members can be overwhelming.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did. You are unbelievable.” He stormed from the restaurant, the bell over the door jangling in his wake.

  Marla tsked, her lips twitching over her coffee mug. “That did not go well.”

  “She’s right.” Graham shook his head. “Could have been handled better, young Val.”

  “He was the one who said Takako was relentless,” I said.

  They shook their heads.

  My shoulders collapsed. I couldn’t win. “I like Takako.”

  They busied themselves with their coffee mugs.

  At least Petros was off the hook. He’d been in the police department the afternoon Tristan Cannon had been murdered. Even Shaw had to see the murders of Dr. Levant and Cannon were connected.

  “Bah.” Mrs. Thistleblossom snorted.

  Shoulders to their ears, Graham and Tally-Wally turned to face the counter.

  I closed up two hours later. To my surprise, Charlene lingered, perched on her counter stool while I mopped. The Halloween village glowed cheerfully in the front windows.

  “There’s something I think you should know.” She adjusted Frederick over the shoulder of her green knit jacket.

  I stuffed the mop in the bucket and leaned on the wooden handle. “You bullied Ray into lowering the noise level on your drone? Why do you need a stealth drone anyway?”

  She lowered her chin and glared from beneath her snowy brows. “You remember I was in Alfreda’s house?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “I’m pretty sure I remember seeing a paperweight collection.”

  “Pretty sure?” I pursed my lips.

  “Reasonably sure.”

  I twisted the mop in the bucket, and it squelched. “That makes it less likely Alfreda’s the killer. Why would anyone take something from their own collection, carry it to a dog park, and use it to bash someone in the head? That would mean it was premeditated, and she’s monumentally stupid. The paperweight points straight at her.”

  “Unless she’d just bought it on Main Street, saw Cannon, followed him, and killed him.”

  “You mean she happened to buy a paperweight murder weapon the day he was killed? Come on.”

  “I can’t remember if she had a bat paperweight in her collection or not. But you know how the prices for Halloween items drop after the festival. Maybe she was waiting for it to go on sale.”

  “Oh.” That did sound sickeningly plausible. I blew out my breath. “Okay. All we have to do is find out if Alfreda bought that paperweight yesterday. If Alfreda’s a collector, then the people in the shop probably will remem
ber the purchase.”

  She adjusted Frederick around her neck. “The shop’s closed now.”

  “We’ll go tomorrow morning. And tonight, how would you like to go to a networking meeting with me?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because Denise will be there?”

  She crossed her arms, rumpling her green knit jacket. “Not good enough. You don’t know what these meetings are like. They’ll make you listen to presentations on pyramid schemes for selling vitamins. Then they’ll invite you to coffee, so they can talk you into becoming one of their salesgirls for the high price of a starter kit. Then all you have to do is get ten more people to sell vitamins in order to make any money. They’re like Cthulu or the Bilderberg Group,” she said. “Tentacles everywhere.”

  “It’s the Women’s Professional Networking Association. They’re international.”

  “So are the Illuminati.”

  First, she’d complained I wasn’t invested enough in our investigation, and now she didn’t want to help. “Well, Denise invited me, and she was Kara’s cousin, so I think at least one Baker Street Baker should go.”

  Ignoring Charlene’s grumbles, I finished cleaning and grabbed my short, gray wool coat from the office. I knotted a red scarf around my neck and returned to the dining area.

  “I’m locking up,” I said.

  “Wait!” Charlene pulled a napkin from its metal holder and reached into her pocket, drawing out a pen. She scrawled something on the napkin and folded it carefully. “Take this.”

  “What is it?” I started to open the napkin.

  “Don’t do that! You’ll know when the time is right to open it. Just keep it in your pocket during the meeting.”

  “Whatever.” Exasperated, I stuffed it in my coat pocket and ushered her through the kitchen and out the alley door.

  She watched while I locked it behind me. We parted, Charlene clambering into her yellow Jeep. She arranged the cat’s limp body on the dashboard. The Jeep’s taillights flared, and she roared from the alley.

  I walked past my delivery van, past the gym next door, and out the other end of the alley.

  The meeting was in a hall above the country grocery store. I tensed walking down the store’s narrow aisles, my gaze darting to the high shelving. But nothing came crashing down as I made my way to the back stairs and to the third floor.

  A low murmur of women’s voices flowed through open metal double doors. I slowed and walked into the room. Hard plastic chairs were arranged in rows in front of a long table.

  A woman with gray-streaked hair greeted me at the door. The name tag on the lapel of her navy blazer read HI, I’M JULIE. “Hello, is this your first time at the meeting?”

  “Yes, I’m Val Harris from Pie Town.”

  She relieved me of ten dollars and handed me a blank name sticker to slap on my chest.

  I made my way through the crowded hall. Women stood in clusters, chatting. Infiltrating one of the groups looked like too much trouble. So, I migrated to a long, folding table lined with crudités, pastries, and a tea and coffee setup.

  I poured a cup of tea from an urn that looked a lot like Pie Town’s.

  “Hi,” a woman said from beside me. “Are you new here?” She was tall, redheaded, middle-aged, and dressed in a long, flowing scarlet dress. In blue ink, her name tag said HI, I’M MARGARITE!

  “Yep,” I said. “I’m Val Harris. I own Pie Town on Main Street.”

  Marguerite rolled her eyes. “That place looks so tempting, but I’ve been trying to cut down on my sugar. I’m Marguerite.”

  “We sell pot pies and quiche as well, but you’re not obligated to stop in. Not everyone in San Nicholas needs to eat at Pie Town.” But they should. “What do you do?”

  “I’m an astrologer.”

  I grinned. Charlene was going to be furious she missed this.

  “I take it you don’t believe in astrology,” she said wryly.

  “No, it’s not that at all. I was trying to talk a friend of mine into coming tonight. But she said it would all be network marketing schemes. She would have loved meeting you.”

  “There are some network marketers,” Marguerite admitted. “But we have a pretty good mix. How did you hear about us?”

  “Denise Tatari invited me.”

  A woman nudged past me to get to a tray of lemon bars. I stepped away from the table.

  Marguerite’s face fell. “The poor woman. I can’t believe what happened to her cousin. I suppose that’s why she’s not here tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t blame her for skipping either.” Crudzilla. She wasn’t coming. But I’d thought Denise would, since she’d invited me. “How do you know Denise?”

  “Through this group. I’m an investor in her software company. One of the shareholders, I mean.”

  “The only thing I can afford to invest in right now is my own business.”

  She flushed. “Oh, my investment is small potatoes. But her company was a place to start, and I like being invested in a local business. Actually, several of the women in the group are too.” She pointed. “Sandy, over there. She’s a chiropractor. And Carmella, she’s a caterer. You might want to meet her. Do you wholesale your pies?”

  “I do.” I’d been working hard building that side of the business.

  “Come on then. I’ll introduce you.”

  Marguerite led me to a middle-aged Filipino woman. “Carmella, this is Val Harris. She’s a friend of Denise. Val owns Pie Town, and she wholesales.”

  Carmella and I discussed the finer points of catering and finger foods and exchanged cards.

  The meeting started, and we found seats in rows of metal chairs. I scanned the crowd for Denise. Marguerite had been right, dang it. Denise wasn’t coming.

  I sat through half a dozen lectures on various women-owned businesses. My butt was aching from the hard metal chair when we finally broke for more mingling.

  No one knew much about Kara. But roughly half the women I met were investors in Denise’s software company, and they all had opinions, all uniformly wonderful. Good for Denise. Bad for profiling a murder suspect.

  Relieved and disappointed, I ripped off my name tag and moved toward the exit. Charlene had called it, as usual. The meeting had been a waste of time.

  A blonde with frizzy hair cornered me about selling fruit and vegetables in capsule form. Her eyes gleamed with the fanaticism of Charlene contemplating a Bigfoot hunt. “The starter kit is only two hundred dollars. Even if you decide not to resell, you get everything at a discount.”

  I edged backward. “I’m so busy right now with Pie Town, I really can’t.”

  “Warren Buffett says you should never depend on a single income, and he’s right. Everyone needs an alternate source.”

  “Maybe someday.” I edged away, and my hip bumped a folding chair. It squeaked on the linoleum. “I just don’t have the money—”

  “This is the cheapest investment you can make. It’s not like investing in a software company.”

  “Software?” That was oddly specific. I leaned closer. “Wait, are you talking about Denise Tatari’s company?”

  She tossed her head. “The minimum investment there was twenty thousand dollars. I know a lot of women can swing it, but most can’t. That’s why programs like Multi-Vita-Energy are so wonderful. Bill Gates said that if he could do it all over again, he wouldn’t go into software, he’d go into network marketing. So, what do you think?”

  Jamming my hands into my coat pockets, I touched a crumpled napkin. I pulled it out and unfolded the thick tissue.

  In big letters, Charlene had written one word: NO.

  “Um, no,” I said. “But thanks.”

  “But—”

  I fled.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I peered through the order window into the restaurant. It was ten A.M. on a Saturday. The pie shop was predictably light on customers at this hour, relieving me of a portion of my abandonment guilt. Untying my
apron, I pulled it over my head.

  Charlene tapped her high-tops, one hand on the kitchen door. “That glassblower won’t interview himself.”

  “I’m almost ready.” I boxed a mini caramel-apple and pumpkin chiffon pie. Folding the pink cardboard, I taped the boxes shut.

  “Sweetening him up with pie? That’s thinking.”

  “We may as well play to our strengths.” In the kitchen, I mouthed thank you to Petronella.

  She smiled in response and slid the giant wooden paddle into the oven.

  Grabbing my hoodie and thick down vest from a peg on the wall, I strode from the kitchen.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Charlene tapped her head.

  My face heated. “Oh.” I whipped off my hairnet and stuffed it into my pocket.

  Charlene followed me to the front door. “We need to approach Smokey carefully. Whatever you do, don’t call him a glassblower. He’s a glass artist.”

  I zipped up my vest and tugged open the door. “He probably didn’t ring up the sale for the paperweight himself.” The few times I’d been in the shop, a woman named Chloe had worked the register. If the police had already spoken with her, we wouldn’t be interfering in Shaw’s investigation. Much.

  We emerged on the brick sidewalk. A sky the color of slate pressed against the tops of the low buildings. I caught myself playing with my hoodie’s zipper, and jammed my hands into my pockets.

  “How are things with your brother?” Charlene asked.

  “You know. The usual.”

  “He’s not really angry about you getting his mother involved in a murder, you know.”

  “I know.” He’d been worried, and I couldn’t blame him.

  “Though it didn’t help when you told him she was more smother than stepmother.”

  I sighed. “I know.”

  We strolled past planter boxes of autumn-themed flowers beaded with moisture.

  I stopped to shove a bill in the mailbox as a gunmetal gray F-150 glided past, its tires whooshing on the damp street.

  “No one likes to see their mother dragged to the police station.”

  “And you need to be patient,” she said.

  We walked on and paused in front of the glassblowing shop. Its windows glittered, pumpkins and paperweights sparkling beneath elaborate blown-glass lamps. Sale tags on the pumpkins advertised ten percent off.