The Pumpkin Thief: A Chloe Boston Mystery

by Melanie Jackson

  “Yes, of course. But will Seattle win?”

  Was this a test of some kind? If it was, I didn’t appreciate it.

  “Who are they playing?” I finally asked.

  “The Rams.”

  “Where?”

  “Seattle.”

  I gave it a slow five count so he would get the impression that I was actually thinking.

  “Seattle will win.” What the hell. If they won he would be impressed. If they lost then he would get over this stupid psychic kick and leave me alone. I decided to leave before he asked me about the point spread. “Is that all, Chief?”

  “Sure. Thanks, Boston.”

  Blue and I left the office.

  The Halloween tourists were gone, but we would start getting the Thanksgiving crowd soon. The Morningside Inn offered some very attractive holiday packages and we have some fun musical reviews at the Opera Hall (a grandiose name for what used to be a dancehall where ladies of ill-repute showed off their charms to drunken miners). We had an interfaith gospel night— I had sung in that last year with my friends Marcie and Andrew— a classic folk music night, an evening of light symphony where the school bands played with the informal adult orchestra, and this year the grammar school was doing a play, written and directed by a high school senior, about the first Thanksgiving in Hope Falls. I was pretty sure that it would be ghastly and had already marked my calendar so I would know what night to make excuses for.

  Thanks to the murder, there were still a couple news vans about, but there wasn’t much to see and there wouldn’t be any new developments (that the chief would share) until after the coroner released his report. I figured they would be gone by the end of the day and decided that in the interest of good will I would not give the one van a ticket, though his bumper was overhanging the crosswalk by a couple of inches.

  I have to change my chalk rather often when the weather is wet and this entails stopping and digging out replacement chalk from the too narrow console and then to fit the clip on my stick. I didn’t mind though because I was feeling sleepy and this gave me a chance to stretch.

  Blue and I were both yawning and considering a nap under the horse chestnuts on Bryant when I heard a gate creek. Looking down the street, I saw a figure in a dark cape coming out of Mrs. Adam’s yard. Now, I don’t know where absolutely everyone lives, but Mrs. Adams was my former fifth grade teacher and very hard of hearing, so I kind of watch out for her when I’m out that way. That’s why I knew that the cloaked person didn’t belong in her yard. Mrs. Adams eats lunch at the senior center on Monday and goes early for the bingo. No one was home.

  I saw a flash of bright orange in the figure’s right fist and dropped my marking stick. I started the cart and began following the person in the shiny black cape. My electric vehicle is nearly silent, but the street was full of crunchy leaves that gave us away. The figure looked back. At first I was startled by the blank face and then realized that he was wearing a tan ski-mask.

  The pumpkin thief! He waved impudently, a jack-be-nimble pumpkin in each hand, one high in the air and one clutched to his chest in what looked like an uncomfortable position, and then he ran between the Adams’ and Riley’s houses and disappeared down the bank that lead to the stream that bisected the town. Blue was whining and wagging her tail, because she has a need for speed that the cart can’t give her, but I had to say no to following. The bank was steep and the water cold. She would make her joints ache if I let her out to chase the thief and she might not be able to climb back up again.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s time for lunch anyway. Let’s go see Mom.”

  I have lunch with my mom on Mondays. I figure that it’s Monday anyway, so why not get my pain all over with and then get on with the week. Mom would want to talk (complain) about my involvement in the murder, but I had a surefire distraction. We would talk about Thanksgiving instead.

  Knowing that it was best to be proactive, I opened the conversation with: “I ordered a Caesar turkey yesterday.”

  I brought Blue inside and signaled her to lay on the rug by the door. Aunt Dorothy claims to be allergic to dogs, but Mom knows I won’t leave Blue out in the cold and rain, and since she doesn’t want to give up her chance to grill me weekly, she lets Blue inside and then vacuums after.

  “Isn’t it a bit soon to be worrying about the holiday?” Mom meant that I had reacted too decisively and wanted me to reconsider my plans while she wrested control away from me. But that wasn’t happening. I was NOT spending Thanksgiving with my Aunt Dorothy and Cousin Althea. Ever since her fur coat had gotten torn (while the pustule and my other cousin were having sex on it in the mudroom at Dad’s house) she has done nothing but complain about me and my boyfriends. I had no idea if Alex would be around for Thanksgiving this year, but I had no intention of letting my aunt rehash that horrible incident with the new man in my life.

  “Well, Mom, I could see that Mr. Jackman was feeling kind of low— he’s all alone you know— and I knew that Mrs. Graves was on her own, too, so I just decided to invite them both.”

  “Well—” But Mom couldn’t argue against an act of kindness, not after having drilled these values into my head.

  “And Alex may be able to come up.” I really was going to have to ask him about this. “And that might mean his aunt would come to. And you know that Mary Elizabeth and Aunt Dorothy don’t get on.” Aunt Dorothy sold Avon. Mary Elizabeth was hardcore Mary Kay, and nary the twain shall meet, at least not peacefully. I knew from Alex that Mary Elizabeth usually inflicted herself on her brother for the holiday, but Mom probably didn’t know that. After all, she was loyal to Aunt Dorothy and used Avon products. Mom wouldn’t fraternize with the enemy enough to know her holiday plans.

  “Well, dear, then I suppose you having dinner is best. I’ll come early—”

  “It’s okay, Mom. This year I have a real treat for you!” I pumped enthusiasm into my voice. “Mr. Jackman really wanted to cook, so I said yes. This way you can just sit back and enjoy the day.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire. Except it was almost the truth and putting it this way was so much kinder than saying I didn’t want Mom in my kitchen. And it wouldn’t kill Mom to watch the parade and then a little football while someone else slaved over the hot stove.

  “I’ll bring the green bean casserole. And the cauliflower Florentine—and creamed onions,” Mom said adamantly.

  Creamed onions— bleh!

  “It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without them,” I said aloud. And that was true. We had these things every year whether we wanted them or not. “So, what’s for lunch?”

  “Minestrone soup. I thought with this cold weather…”

  “Sounds great. I smell corn bread too. Yum!”

  Mom’s face relaxed. She enjoys feeding me.

  “I got some dog biscuits for Blue,” Mom admitted. “I keep them in my cookie jar.” Mom and Aunt Dorothy can’t agree on snacks, so they each have their own stash of pastry goods.

  “Thanks. Oh, by the way, your lead to Amelia Adler was very helpful. The chief is new in town and doesn’t know everyone yet.”

  “I’m glad I could help.” Mom meant that she would be a responsible citizen and assist the police even if she didn’t like me being anywhere near the investigation. “The sooner this sad affair is wrapped up, the better.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. I don’t want to see David Cooper again.”

  Mom turned from the stove where she was ladling up soup.

  “Why would you have to see David Cooper?” Mom can sound almost as cold at the chief.

  “He is handling the Burns estate.” I grimaced. “But I think the chief has all the info he needs now, so I shouldn’t have to talk to the pustule again.”

  Mom set a bowl in front of me.

  “Chloe— language! I know he is unscrupulous, but ‘pustule’ is such an ugly word.”

  David was an ugly person, but I didn’t pursue this argument. It wasn’t one I could win.

  �
�Soup looks great, Mom. Now sit down and let’s talk about dessert. I think we have to do pumpkin and apple pie, but what about a cranberry cobbler?”

  Happily distracted from less pleasant subjects, Mom again relaxed and started planning our Thanksgiving dessert menu. I would end up with a couple classic clunkers like orange gelatin salad with shredded carrot and raisins, but it was worth it to keep the peace.

  Chapter 10

  The phone rang just before six a.m.. I picked up the handset and snapped without thinking: “This had better be good.”

  “Chloe?” A voice asked tentatively. After a second I realized that it was Alex’s voice and tried to wake up my civility.

  “Alex. Hi.”

  “Are you always this grumpy in the morning?”

  “Only when I’m sleeping.”

  Alex laughed. I get up fairly early but I am not one of those chipper morning people. I could hear a lot of background noise and knew he wasn’t at home.

  “I have some good news. I’ve got a break in my schedule and some frequent flyer miles saved up, so I’m catching a flight up in about twenty minutes.” He was waiting for a reaction and I tried to find one.

  “Great,” I said, almost meaning it. “I’ll see you after work, I guess.”

  “Um…. Okay. You go back to sleep and get happy. Bye now.”

  “Bye.”

  After I hung up I wondered if what he had been waiting for was not an expression of enthusiasm, but rather an invitation to stay at my place.

  “Should I have asked him?” Apollo just glared out of one open eye. Blue wagged her tail but had no advice. “I should have, shouldn’t I?”

  Sighing, I dialed Alex’s cell number.

  “Chloe? Is everything okay?”

  “Do you want to stay here?”

  It was his turn to pause. Frankly I was a little insulted that he needed to think about this. If he didn’t stay with me then he was stuck with his aunt. Or at the inn which was kind of expensive.

  “Sure. That would be great if you don’t mind,” he said at last.

  “Find me on my route,” I said. “I’ll give you a key.”

  “Okay— see you in a few hours.” He sounded cheerful again.

  “Bye now.” I was feeling more cheerful, too, but maybe not in the way Alex wanted. Mr. Jackman is good at research, but Alex tracked criminals on the computer for a living. I had been wondering how I would find Ryan Endicott without using the work computers that keep track of who goes into the databases. The chief might have allowed me to assist on the case by playing messenger to David and collecting gossip, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to let me on the frontlines of the investigation. That would mean admitting to everyone that I was actively involved in the case and possible grievances and complaints from the union about someone in parking enforcement doing detective work.

  And anyway, solving the murder might not have anything to do with finding this Ryan Endicott. I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to track him down. Not for David’s sake. And it sure wasn’t because I wanted to tell him that he might be the product of incest, or that the brother he had never met had been murdered.

  But I have learned to listen to that little voice that people call intuition. It was telling me to find Ryan Endicott and to do it pronto.

  Blue whined and pawed at me.

  “It’s too early for a walk.”

  But she whined again and ran for the front door where she began woofing and dancing around. Curious, I got up, wincing as my bare feet hit the floor. It was time to drag out the footsie-pajamas. Well, it would be after Alex was gone. He didn’t much like them.

  As I groped for my slippers, I heard the front gate slam. Abandoning the futile effort to find footwear, I ran to the door and threw it open. At first, nothing seemed wrong, but Blue ran past me to the gate, her backside wagging furiously as she woo-wooed. Looking around I noticed that one of my pumpkins was missing. I had grown some white ones this year. My results were poor and I had had only three to arrange on the stoop in front of my cornstalks. One of them was gone.

  “Well damn.” I had been visited by the pumpkin thief, and Blue’s joyous woo-wooing and wagging backside was very interesting.

  I made three tuna sandwiches for lunch. During the summer, Dad would have spent Tuesday in the van paying house calls in Roosevelt and Potters Mill, but things were slower in the fall and I figured I would find him at home. I didn’t really need to see him about the case, but I think he was enjoying our working together, so I decided to take my lunch hour with him and tell him about the pumpkin thief and the zombie.

  At work, the chief again stopped to talk to me, which was flattering but also making the rest of the force increasingly uneasy.

  “Boston.” At least he wasn’t calling me Chloe. If he seemed even the tiniest bit affectionate, the lardhead would start telling people we were having an affair.

  “Yes, Chief?”

  “Are you familiar with the basic devious, criminal mind?”

  “I was engaged to David Cooper,” I answered.

  “Good point.” The chief frowned.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I am going to have to do something about this pumpkin thief. I’ve just had an old woman shrieking at me about her Jack Mumbles being missing.”

  “Jack-Be-Nimble. They are miniature pumpkins and Mrs. Adams is missing two of them.”

  The chief stared.

  “I thought she was talking about a child. Or maybe a dog. Surely no one gets that upset over a missing vegetable.”

  “She called you personally?”

  “Yes. It seems she used to call your father when she had troubles and has decided to now honor me.”

  I nodded sympathetically.

  “Dad was usually available for people with problems.”

  “Hmph. For chasing down missing pumpkins?”

  “Or cats. He thought it good policy.”

  “I think I could rebuke that hypothesis.”

  “Probably not to Mrs. Adams. She is quite hard of hearing.”

  The chief shook his head and walked away. I’d seen the chief angry and he wasn’t that morning. I had the feeling that he had deliberately chosen to have this conversation out in the open where everyone could hear. It was as far from lover-like as any chat could be, and a supposed annoyance with my father’s business practices offered cover for future conversations we might have. It might also gain me some sympathy if the men thought the chief was always riding me for my dad’s failings. The chief was being subtle and clever, two things I never expected him to be.

  I almost gave it away by grinning.

  Having a few minutes before the morning briefing, I dropped Blue at my desk and then stopped by the break-room for coffee. Dale Gordon was there, looking blank until I came in and then he snapped into action, grabbing both chips and cookies from the vending machine and adding them to the two sodas on the table. He seemed very business like for sixty seconds or so, but then his actions exhausted him and he slumped down at the table and leaned into the chair, an amazing feat because the chairs have straight backs and are about as comfy as a church pew. I guess deciding between chips and cookies is exhausting for some people.

  He glared at me as he stuffed his face. His eyes kind of bulged in and out with each clenching of the jaw.

  The devil on my shoulder whispered in my ear and I succumbed.

  “Gordon,” I said pleasantly. “I know someone who wants to meet you. She’s a little shy, so I said I would talk to you first and make sure you were interested.”

  He paused in his chewing.

  “Who?”

  “Her name is Althea. She’s Doc Marley’s receptionist.” I always figured Althea worked for a dentist so she could get her fangs polished for free.

  “Is she built?” That would be Gordon’s main consideration.

  “Like a brick shithouse,” I said, using one of Dad’s forbidden phrases. It didn’t pay to take the high road with Gordon. A girl’s pe
rsonality would be completely irrelevant. “Let me give you her number.”

  Movement in the doorway behind Gordon drew my eye. It was the chief and he was trying not to laugh. I guess he remembered Cousin Althea and not fondly. I narrowed my eyes at him and he disappeared.

  I scribbled Althea’s number on a napkin and slid it across the table.

  “She’s off work at five. Now you be nice and don’t scare her.” Like Althea would be scared of anyone in pants. If anything, it was Gordon who was in danger.

  Gordon didn’t say thank you, but he grunted which I took to be his version of expressing gratitude.

  Grabbing some coffee, I headed for the briefing. Again I managed to keep a straight face though it was getting harder.

  Rounds were light since Tuesday isn’t a big shopping or lunching day downtown. I figured things would be slow until the weekend. This time of year, tourists came looking for fall color. Unfortunately, a lot of our trees had been stripped bare by the Halloween storm, so the only color was in the gutter and that would be gone Thursday when the street sweeper came around. There were still plenty of other fun things to do though, like visit the cider mill, shop the boutiques and also admire all the neighborhood decorations. People went for holidays in a big way in Hope Falls. Many neighborhoods ran decorating contests and we usually got written up in a travel magazine or two.

  Of course, this year we were getting attention for having a real corpse at our haunted house.

  Blue and I turned up at Dad’s house just before noon. Dad was outside, standing near a fire he had going in an old oil drum. It was filled with scraps of wood and he had laid an old oven rack over the top and put a battered tin coffee pot on top. His plaid jacket was covered in burns from years of flying sparks singing the old wool.

  A quick look told me that the dilapidated barn at the edge of the property was down and that Old Luke had himself a new, one-horse home that might even last the winter. Since the wood was recycled it looked convincingly old, but I was sure Dad had shored it up inside with new lumber. I was relieved that old place was gone. I had worried that Dad or Luke would end up wearing the old barn roof as a hat some day.