Pumpkin Picking with Murder

by Auralee Wallace

  I turned on my heel, headed once again for the Dawg.

  “Where are you going in such a hurry? I thought you could walk my beat with me at the fair. The midway doesn’t open until eleven. Do you want to get breakfast?”

  “Can’t. Got stuff to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well,” I said, slowing my pace to allow Freddie to catch up. “I thought I’d start by buying myself and Grady a coffee to apologize—”

  “Uh-oh. What did you do now?”

  I spun to face him. “It’s not what I did. It’s what we”—I gestured back and forth between us—“did.”

  “Now I get why you’re in such a bad mood. Guess he heard about your breakdown at the bingo hall.”

  “Yes, he did. From me.”

  “What did you go and do that for?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, throwing my hands into the air. “Maybe because I don’t want to lie to him every time we talk?”

  He stopped walking. “We’re fighting a lot these days. I think we need a date night to revitalize our relationship.”

  I turned. “Freddie, don’t you see that’s part of the problem? I can’t do the stuff you want me to do without it upsetting Grady. And I can’t do the stuff he wants to do with me because he’s already busy trying to be super-awesome sheriff guy. And do you know why he’s doing that? Because nobody trusts him anymore because they’re all too busy trusting you!”

  Freddie nodded, but his face tightened. “I see.”

  I instantly regretted my words. This wasn’t his fault. I was just frustrated by … everything. “Aw, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine,” I said. “I didn’t—”

  “But,” Freddie said, cutting me off. “I think you’re missing something pretty important here.”

  I exhaled roughly. “And what’s that?”

  “When it comes to finding out what’s happening with the twins and this whole mess, you’ve talked about what I want to do to get to the bottom of it. And you’ve talked about what Grady wants. But what is it that you want do, Erica? Do you want to do something? Or nothing?”

  I felt my brow crinkle. “I, I—”

  “No, don’t answer,” Freddie said, putting his hand up in a stop gesture. “I want you to think about it.” He was walking backward away from me. “Because if you do—really think about it, I mean—I’m pretty certain that you’ll come to the conclusion that you have never felt more alive than when you’re doing what we do … with me.” His eyes darted around a moment as though he was making sure he had that right. Then he nodded and turned to stomp away, nearly running over an older couple strolling hand in hand. He had to hop around them in a semicircle with his hands up to avoid a collision.

  As the couple he nearly hit moved past me, I heard one of them mutter, “I thought he was gay?”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, I was attempting to pull open the door of the Dawg with two large coffees in my hands. Normally, I would have refused to do what Freddie had told me to, based on principle alone, but his words were still bouncing around in my brain. What did I want? It was a pretty deep question on a lot of levels, and it brought up a lot of other questions. Had I come home just to see Grady? Or was there a part of me that really wanted to come home? And if there was a part of me that wanted that, could I handle all that came with it? What if things between Grady and me didn’t work out? Did I still want to come home? Somewhere, deep down, I was starting to suspect that a part of me did feel like I belonged in Otter Lake … and that was terrifying.

  And what about Freddie and all his detective adventures? If I was being, completely, completely honest, I did get a bit of rush out of the whole business. Freddie didn’t make me go to that bingo hall. I wanted to. But it was ridiculous. Otter Lake Security was not a real option for me. It was like playing dress-up—and yet Freddie had somehow managed to find a way to get paid for it. That was the most ridiculous part of all.

  Gah, I had a headache with all this merry-go-round thinking. I needed to go back to the whole living-in-the-moment thing. At least for a minute or two. I finally managed to get the door of the Dawg open so I could step outside. Yes, sunshine. I needed to feel the sunshine, smell the fresh air, absorb the beauty of my surroundings … ponder why there was a group of people standing on the sidewalk staring at something across the street with looks of horror on their faces.

  Yup, that was odd.

  Two men, one wearing a red flannel shirt, the other a blue, were just standing there, staring, along with a woman. There was also a younger couple huddled a little farther down the sidewalk, clutching a stroller protectively, like at any moment they might have to run. All of them were looking at the same spot across the street. I tracked their collective gaze, hearing the woman say, “That poor, poor man. He has no idea.”

  Hmm, she must mean that tall, blond guy in the dressy pants standing in front of Mrs. Moore’s house. Strange. I mean, the pants looked good. Really good. Like I was having trouble looking away good. But definitely out of place for this town. You could wear those pants to play golf. Maybe even brunch. And he didn’t look like a poor man to me, but Mrs. Moore, who was standing beside him, pointing at the porch, well, she looked pretty upset.

  “What is he thinking?” Red-Flannel asked.

  “I’m telling you he doesn’t know,” the man in blue answered with a pitying chuckle. “How could he?”

  “But she won’t send him under there after it?” the woman went on.

  “That’s exactly what she’s thinking. She’s nuts. It’s like that time she called the fire department for help. They wouldn’t touch it either.”

  “But his father just died!”

  My eyes whipped back over to the man. Matthew Masterson. Well, that explained the fancy golfing pants. He was an architect in New York last I heard. He must be back in town for … well, of course, he was back in town. His father had just died.

  “Oh no! He’s going to do it!”

  Matthew dropped to his knees and moved his head around as though trying to see past the latticework covering the space underneath the porch. He then edged toward a gap between the interlaced wood and a bush.

  The woman slapped her hands over her face. “I can’t watch.”

  The man chuckled again.

  “Don’t just stand there laughing!” The woman whacked him on his arm. “Do something!”

  “Oh, I’m not going over there.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked, edging closer to the couple.

  The man in the red flannel shirt gave me a nod. “It’s the fair. Got Mrs. Moore’s Buttercup all upset. He tried to escape the backyard and somehow got himself stuck there under the porch.”

  I shot a sideways look back over to the house. “I take it Buttercup’s not friendly.”

  The man in the blue flannel shirt, standing with the woman who appeared to be his wife, laughed heartily at that. So heartily, he had to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.

  “Get ahold of yourself,” she said to him sharply before leaning around to look at me. “Buttercup has the whole town in terror.”

  I looked back at the house. Yup, Matthew Masterson was half under the porch now. I pointed back at the Dawg. “Maybe if I got some meat, we could lure … Buttercup out?”

  The man squinted at me. “Meat?”

  “I thought…” I squinted. “Buttercup’s not a dog?”

  He shook his head. “A dog? Heck no. I’d go in for a dog.”

  I raised my hand in question. “So, Buttercup is a cat?”

  He shook his head again, but this time a smile spread across his face.

  “Okay,” I said, dropping my hand. “You’ve got me. What is Buttercup? Raccoon? Fox? Beaver?”

  “Worse.”

  When he finally told me, my face dropped.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, I’m serious.”


  All three nodded. The couple with the toddler nodded too from their safe distance.

  My eyes widened. “And you’re just watching?”

  “Hey, don’t judge us,” the other man sputtered. “You haven’t seen what that thing can do.”

  I threw him my best imitation of a You’re going to need to make this right with your God look I’d learned from a particularly harsh DA back in Chicago. “Someone has to warn him.”

  The blue-flanneled gentleman waved out a pathway for me with his hand.

  I rushed across the street, placing my coffees on the curb before racing up the lawn. Mrs. Moore cut me off halfway. “Erica, isn’t it? So glad—”

  “He doesn’t know,” I said more as a statement than a question. “You didn’t tell him.”

  “Buttercup is just misunderstood. He’s really quite—”

  I ran around her to the porch. “Matthew? You’re going to need to back out of there slowly. Really slowly,” I said, crouching to see into the gloom.

  He looked back at me over his shoulder. “Erica? Erica Bloom?”

  I nodded but didn’t meet his eye. I was too busy scanning the darkness. I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel the danger. “Back up now. Slowly.”

  “It’s been years. Give me a second, I’m just helping Mrs. Moore get her … cat? I think she said it was a cat.”

  “It’s not a cat.”

  His face crinkled in question.

  “If it’s not a cat, then what is…” His voice trailed off when he heard the noise coming from underneath the porch.

  The telltale hiss.

  We both tracked the sound into the shadows.

  “Is … that what I think it is?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The glint of two beady eyes caught the light in the darkness.

  It was so much closer than I could have imagined.

  Matthew backed up a little, but then looked over to Mrs. Moore, who had her hands still clutched to her chest. I watched his shoulders sink. “Well, I have come this far…”

  “No! Don’t do it!” I shouted.

  The beast’s mouth opened again, pink tongue quivering in another warning hiss.

  Matthew rose to his feet. “I’m not leaving, Buttercup,” he said throwing his arms out. “You’re going to have to come get me.”

  Buttercup’s wings unfolded and spread impossibly wide into the enclosed space.

  My head shook back and forth in horror.

  “Matthew…”

  The wings gave a single flap and—

  “Run!”

  Chapter Eleven

  “You’re bleeding a little bit.”

  “I am?” Matthew asked, lowering himself to the curb before touching his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “I don’t remember him getting me there. Then again, all I really remember is the flapping … and the endless charging.” His eyes widened as he shook his head. “And the screaming. I didn’t know I could scream like that.”

  Ah, Canada geese—aside from moose in mating season, probably the most aggressive predator in New Hampshire. And yes, I say predator, because they feed on fear. Buttercup was no exception.

  “Don’t worry. You weren’t the only one screaming,” I said, planting myself on the curb beside him. It was a little strange talking to Matthew like I had just seen him the other day and not years ago, but we had just survived something together. It kind of allowed us to bypass awkward small talk.

  “And the honking,” Matthew went on. “I think I may have lost some hearing in one ear.”

  Once the bird had come charging out of the darkness, wings turning like two demented windmills, Matthew had jumped back into me and we both fell. I log-rolled toward the curb, shielding my head, but Matthew got up and faced off with the goose, pacing in a circle, like a sumo wrestler. Apparently Buttercup had a hurt wing and couldn’t fly, but his ground game was still pretty tight.

  “Good idea to run to the backyard, by the way,” I added. Mrs. Moore had a shelter set up for Buttercup behind the house, and once Matthew had run him back, she had swung the gate shut. Of course that meant poor Matthew had been trapped with the hell beast for a few moments alone, but he had managed to jump the fence in the end.

  “Yeah, there was no plan. I was just running. But don’t tell Mrs. Moore that. No one’s ever called me a hero before. It was kind of nice,” Matthew said, nodding, looking across the street. “I swear every time I’m in Otter Lake something like this happens.”

  “Yaaas,” I said, throwing my hands into the air. “Thank you.”

  “You too? Like last time I was home…” He cut himself short, and his features suddenly froze. He looked like he had been hit. I had forgotten about his father in all the chaos. He must have too.

  “I’m really sorry for your loss,” I said after a moment had passed.

  “It’s okay.” He brushed some dirt off the knees of his pants. “It wasn’t entirely unexpected.” I guess he saw something like shock register on my face, so he added, “My father was not a young man.”

  I nodded and looked away. I didn’t want to imply anything else with my expression. I guess Matthew hadn’t been let in on the medical examiner’s plan. Grady probably didn’t want to cause him or his mother any unnecessary pain.

  “I didn’t think you lived in Otter Lake anymore?” he asked in an obvious attempt to change the subject. A very powerful attempt what with his gentle smile and sad eyes. He’d always had that Ralph Lauren Polo ad look going for him … not that I would notice such a thing when I was dating somebody else.

  “Oh, I don’t,” I said quickly. “I’m just visiting.”

  “Is that coffee for your mother? Is she here?” he asked, looking around. “I’d like to say hello, and well, my mother said your mother makes this blend of tea that—” He paused to rub his forehead then winced when he remembered the cut. “—calms her nerves, I guess? The retreat was actually my next stop. I tried calling … and someone picked up. I could have sworn that I heard breathing … but I must have been wrong because no one said anything.”

  “Yeah, no,” I said. “You didn’t hear wrong. My mom’s taken a vow of silence for the week. If you do call back, just talk. Pretend she’s an answering machine. It’s fine.”

  Matthew smiled.

  I raised my eyebrows. “I could get the tea from my mother and drop it by your place?” Whoa. Where the heck had that come from? I wasn’t normally that considerate. “I just need to find Grady first,” I added quickly, picking up and raising one of the coffees in the air.

  “Grady? Grady Forrester?” There was something in his voice that I couldn’t quite put a finger on. Surprise maybe? “Are you two…?”

  “No. Not exactly,” I said without thinking. “Well, maybe. I don’t—”

  “Come to think of it,” he said, turning his head, considering me more closely, “I seem to remember the crush you had on Grady. Devastated the rest of us boys.”

  “What? Well … that’s just…” I said, fumbling around for the right word, “stupid.”

  Matthew’s brow furrowed in the cutest way.

  “I mean not stupid … just not true. I mean … never mind.” And suddenly I was a tongued-tied idiot. What the hell was going on?

  He chuckled softly. “Well, if you’re looking for Grady, I can tell you he’s not here.”

  I cocked my head.

  “He’s at the estate. Along with the rest of the town.” An expression of utter exhaustion crossed his face. “You’re welcome to come over to find him.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “The timing doesn’t seem … appropriate.”

  “I could use an ally,” he said, touching his cut again. “You know how this town can be.”

  I smiled. “That I do.”

  “Besides, I’d rather not walk in alone with a head wound. Everyone will freak out. There will be a million questions.” His eyes darted to mine with a bit of a twinkle in them. “This way I can just blame it on you.�
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  “That … would probably work.”

  “Oh,” he said, eyes widening. “I was kidding, but … well, great. Good. I walked, though,” he added, pointing in the direction of the road. “It was such a nice day. I forgot how far it is.”

  “I’ve got my mom’s boat. Let’s go by water.”

  * * *

  It was an amazing day. Bright. Sunny. Postcard-perfect with all the colors of the trees reflected in the lake. We didn’t talk much during the fifteen minutes or so it took to zip across the water to get to the estate, but I wouldn’t have described it as awkward. The boat’s engine was loud, and given that Matthew’s father had just died, bubbly conversation didn’t seem quite right.

  I steered the boat in the direction of the dock.

  “Wow.” I leaned forward as though that would help me take even more in of the house. The lower basement level was made of stone, while the three levels above were constructed of white wood. There was even a turret at the end corner of the porch that traveled up the side of the manse. The estate somehow managed to look both rustic and moneyed at the same time. A hard combination to pull off. “This place is just full of beautiful. I’ve only ever seen it from a distance.”

  “It’s why I became an architect,” Matthew said, but he sounded distracted. I caught him looking at the mass of cars parked on the lawn at the top of the hill. I watched his chest heave with a sigh.

  Yup, there was Mrs. Carmichael’s florist van … no missing the bouquet airbrushed onto the side panel. Then there was the hearse. Mr. Thomson, director of the funeral home, drove that one. Oh, and there was Grady’s cruiser. There were a bunch of other cars too, but I didn’t recognize them.

  Matthew tied off the boat to the long dock, and we walked up the slope of the lawn. We made it about halfway to the house when he said, “Well, at least, this is how my mother would have envisioned it.”

  “Sorry?”

  “All the people paying respects. She still tends to think of herself as Otter Lake royalty.”

  “In fairness,” I said with a click of my tongue, “she kind of is.”

  “Right. Well, in that case … you want a tour of the grounds from the crown prince?”