Pumpkin Picking with Murder

by Auralee Wallace

  “Well, whatever you and Freddie have planned today, I’m sure somebody’s bound to call it in. I’ll have to make sure I work it into my already jam-packed schedule.” He walked down the steps and put a halfhearted fist in the air. “Roar.”

  * * *

  “Wait. He seriously said Roar?”

  I nodded with my lips pinched together. “He did.”

  “He’s such a weirdo sometimes,” Freddie said, grimacing. “I mean, an unfairly handsome weirdo. But still a weirdo.”

  I was sitting at the island in Freddie’s kitchen waiting for him to pass me a coffee. It was a gorgeous room, just like every other room in the house. Definitely a chef’s kitchen with its stacked ovens, ample counter space, state-of-the-art appliances—I was pretty sure the fridge gave back rubs. Freddie told me his parents had it redone a couple of years ago while they were visiting. I couldn’t help but wonder if it made Freddie sad to have this kitchen built for … well, people, and to be always be alone in it.

  I had driven Lightning back to Freddie’s with the tapes right after Grady left, avoiding my mother completely. I could not go another round of charades having had so little sleep.

  “That being said,” Freddie added, tightening the belt of his robe, “he did cover my boat, so I’m going to cut him some slack.”

  “Seriously,” I said, trying to keep the emotion from my voice. “He knew who I was before we started whatever it is that we’ve started. This should not be a surprise.”

  “In fairness, he probably wasn’t counting on there being so many murders around you.”

  “Two. Two murders,” I said, sticking up one finger before I realized I needed to add another. Hmm, I was pretty tired … and upset.

  “Right.” Freddie nodded, passing me a steaming mug. “Although, for most people, two is a lot.”

  I sighed. Our plan this morning was to head over to the library to use the VCR, but that was suddenly feeling very wrong. “We probably should just turn the tapes over to Grady.”

  “What?” Freddie shouted. “You can’t be serious!”

  “Freddie,” I said with a sigh. “You know it’s the right thing to do.” I was getting one of those tired headaches that can only be cured with about fourteen hours of sleep.

  “I do not!” Freddie scoffed. “Erica, now, more than ever, we need to focus on what is important here.”

  “Okay,” I said. “We could try to do that. I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

  “The important thing here is … me.”

  “What?” I yelled, pulling the mug too quickly away from my mouth, slopping hot liquid over the side. “You were supposed to say Tweety.”

  “Well, of course, Tweety, that goes without saying, but stay with me here a second.” He straightened up and jabbed a finger on the counter. “The last time there was a murderer in town, who tried to pin it on an innocent suspect?”

  I chuckled painfully. “Well, there was me. I think I may have done that.”

  “And?”

  I realized where Freddie was going with this, and suddenly it wasn’t so funny. “Grady.”

  “And,” Freddie said quite seriously, “who was right all along about that not being the case?”

  I paused a moment before I muttered, “You.”

  “Exactly,” Freddie said, slapping the island. “So given our respective track records, who do you really think should be the first person to see that tape?”

  “Still Grady.”

  “What!”

  I turned again to look outside. It was certainly better than looking at Freddie’s overly indignant expression. “You were lucky, that’s all. And while I’m not exactly thrilled with Grady at the moment, I—”

  “Luck?” Freddie planted both his hands on the island and leaned forward, as though he might make a lunge for me. “Luck was never part of the equation.”

  “Freddie, I—”

  “Now, these tapes”—he snatched them off the stone surface of the island and held them up for me to see—“are the official property of Otter Lake Security. I don’t see a subpoena, do you?”

  I shook my head no.

  “If you understand nothing else, Erica Bloom, understand this,” Freddie said. “I am your best hope to free Tweety. I know this to be true.” He spun to stalk out of the kitchen. “Now hurry up and finish your coffee.”

  I stayed frozen watching Freddie stomp to the steps that led up to his bedroom.

  “Come on,” he whined. “I just realized if we hurry we can make the opening of the fair after the library. The mini donut lady always gives me a sample from the first batch.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I trotted up the concrete steps to the refurbished red-brick Victorian building and through the door Freddie was holding open for me. I stepped inside with some renewed pep. The coffee and the crisp drive across the lake had helped lift my spirits. I took a deep breath, welcoming the comforting smell of aging books.

  Ah, the library. Just being surrounded by all those books made me feel smarter … like I belonged at Harvard or something … sitting at one of those tables with the little lamps with the green shades. Of course, when I’d tried to study here back in high school, I usually ended up with my face flattened against the tabletop, cheek wet with sleep drool, but whatever.

  I think the real reason for my improved mood, however, was that this could be it. It was time for answers. Time to prove Tweety innocent.

  Freddie walked up beside me. “I love the library,” he whispered, mirroring my sentiment. “It takes me back to my childhood.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. My nannies loved to dump me here for story time. For a five-, six-year period, I never missed a single one.”

  “Freddie!” I turned to see Ms. Robinson slide out from in between the stacks after placing a book back on the shelves without even looking. Not that she was careless. Just the opposite, in fact. Ms. Robinson and the library were one. She just knew what book went where, kind of like how you don’t need to look to scratch the itch at the back of your head. “Where have you been? And Erica Bloom,” she said warmly. “How lovely to see you.”

  “Thank you,” I replied with a smile. “It’s good to see you too.”

  “Were you two looking for a quiet escape from the fair?”

  “No, actually we were hoping that you could help us with something.”

  “Of course, dear. Of course. But first, Freddie, would you like a cookie?”

  Freddie’s smile widened. “Yes, Ms. Robinson.”

  She scurried off toward the back of the library, calling out behind her, “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  “She gets you snacks?” I asked, turning to give Freddie a look.

  He just shrugged.

  “I swear, you have the weirdest relationships with people.”

  “We’re a natural fit. The spinster and the neglected boy. It’s a fairy tale that practically writes itself,” he said, walking farther in. “And it always ends with cookies.”

  A moment later, Ms. Robinson hurried back in with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.

  “Oh!” Freddie said, excitedly clapping his hands together. “It’s the ones with the jam in the middle. I love the ones with the jam in the middle.”

  He then sat himself down at the children’s table, folding his legs into one of the tiny chairs. I frowned. This was starting to get really weird. I needed to take control of this situation.

  “Now, what can I do for you two?” Ms. Robinson asked.

  I dragged my eyes away from Freddie. “We were wondering if you have an old VCR we could use. We, uh, are doing some research.” I may have been willing to watch the tape with Freddie before we turned it over to either my uncle or the police department, but I was not about to let rumor get back to Grady about its existence before that happened.

  “Of course, dear. There’s one already set up in the basement with a TV. I’ll show you.”

  Suddenly the front doo
rbells jangled.

  Ms. Robinson’s face fell. “Oh dear. It’s Mrs. Appleton,” she said, leaning toward us. “She won’t be happy. Her book isn’t in yet.” She met my eye. “She does like her BDSM.”

  Freddie and I both looked back at the former Sunday school teacher. I leaned down to whisper, “I think Mrs. Appleton is far more complex than I gave her credit for.”

  “I know, right?”

  “Oh well,” I said, turning back to Ms. Robinson, “you take care of Mrs. Appleton. I’m sure we can figure things out downstairs.”

  “Well,” she replied, with evident disappointment, “if you don’t think you’ll need my help…”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  Freddie moved to get up from the tiny chair, grasping the plate of cookies in his hands.

  “Freddie,” Ms. Robinson said, turning to walk away. “Cookies at the table only. You know that, dear.”

  “Yes, Ms. Robinson,” he mumbled, reluctantly setting the plate back down.

  “Let’s go.”

  He nodded, snatching one more from the plate and stuffing it in his mouth. “If we hurry, we can still make the mini donuts.”

  I threw him a look.

  “What? I’m hung over.”

  * * *

  A minute or two later, we were seated at a desk in the gloomy basement library. Even though the room was completely finished, it still felt damp and, well, basement-like.

  “By the way,” I said, slipping what I hoped was the right tape into the deck. “I thought you said this whole thing might be Betamax good. These tapes are obviously VHS.”

  “I was joking,” he said, slapping my hand away to press the REWIND button. “Of course they aren’t Betamax. Betamax couldn’t tape for thirty-six hours. Not even with time lapse. There’s so much for you to learn.”

  We waited as the VCR made some clicking noises.

  “It’s creepy in the basement,” Freddie said, looking around. Not that we could see much. The desk had privacy panels. “If I were a serial killer I’d totally hang out down here.”

  I shot Freddie a look.

  “What?”

  After a few more clicks, the VCR’s gears picked up some speed. I couldn’t help but wonder how often Freddie changed these tapes, because this one sounded like it had seen better days. I was about to ask him when the gears slowed again. The machine then stopped with a clunk.

  “Here we go.” Freddie pressed PLAY.

  The screen suddenly came to life and … my heart sunk. “Oh no, it’s already taped over!” The screen was black with just a few dots of light.

  “What?”

  I put a hand up to the screen. “It’s black.”

  “Settle down, you.” Freddie pointed to the bottom of the screen. “There’s a time stamp, and if I’m right, that’s close to when you stopped the tape.”

  “So?”

  “So…” Freddie pressed the FAST FORWARD button. “Bingo!”

  Suddenly the screen glowed white. Daylight! People! The fair! I clapped my hands together in little happy bursts.

  “This,” he said, pointing to the time stamp again, “is about twenty minutes before everything went down. Good thing we stopped the tape from recording over itself.”

  “Yeah, good thing we did that.”

  Freddie ignored me. “The Tunnel of Love is over here.” He pointed just left of the TV screen. “But Mr. Masterson most likely would have had to walk the main midway to get there.”

  We settled back into silence as we watched the crowd of people mill across the screen.

  After about fifteen minutes of watching in silence, worry began to seep back in.

  “You’re oozing disappointment again.”

  “But look at it,” I said, not taking my eyes from the video. “You can barely tell one person from an—Oh! Pompadour!”

  Both Freddie and I lurched toward the TV.

  “Do you see it?” I asked, pressing at the screen with my index finger.

  “I see it! Move your hand!”

  “That’s totally Mr. Masterson.”

  “You know, at one time I thought about trying a pompadour, but it’s a lot of work,” Freddie said, angling in closer. “Bit of a dandy, isn’t he? Is he walking with anyone? I can’t tell.”

  I yanked him back at the shoulder. “I can’t see! Move.” We both watched a moment or two in silence. “No, I think he’s alone. Wait … wait.”

  “What! What!” Freddie shouted.

  “No!” I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. “It can’t be!”

  “What! Who?”

  “Look who’s making a beeline through the crowd to get to Mr. Masterson.”

  “Who? Stop it!” Freddie said smacking me on the arm. “Just tell me.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Wait for it. You’ll see. Now! Right there!” I pointed at the screen.

  “Oh!” Freddie yelled. He turned his eyes to meet mine. “Well, this might just change everything.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “If it isn’t our friendly neighborhood hairstylist.”

  “Shush!” I waved a hand at Freddie. “I can’t watch and listen to you at the same time.”

  “Wow,” he muttered. “You really don’t know how to sell yourself to future employers, do you?”

  We watched in silence as Marg Johnson steamrolled her way to Mr. Masterson. Even with the lousy film quality, her bouffant stood out just as much as Mr. Masterson’s pompadour. “Why is it all jerky like that?”

  “What, the film? It’s the time lapse! I told you it records only every sixteen frames.”

  The machine’s whirring sound grew in volume. “Is the tape okay?” I asked, biting my nail.

  “It’s fine. Focus!”

  We snapped back to silence as Marg Johnson approached Mr. Masterson.

  “Do you think she looks mad?” I whispered. “I think she looks kind of mad.”

  “Why are you whispering?” Freddie asked. “She can’t hear you.”

  Neither one of us said anything as we watched the pair on the screen, the crowd milling around them. From the bird’s-eye angle, it was impossible to tell what they were saying, but Marg was waving her arms quite a bit. Then Mr. Masterson turned, as though he was about to leave, and Marg grabbed his arm.

  Freddie gasped.

  I saw from the corner of my eye that he had slapped his hand over his mouth.

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “This is getting a little intense.”

  “Hey! Look!” I said, pointing again. “Is that—is that Mrs. Masterson over there by the ring-toss game? I thought she wasn’t at the fair—that Grady had someone go get her.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know,” Freddie said. “Oh my God, and there’s Tweety! Or Kit Kat! I can’t tell. It must be Tweety. She’s heading over to Mr. Masterson too!”

  “You’re right—what the—what the heck just happened?”

  Suddenly everything went blurry. Or not exactly blurry … more like something was blocking the shot.

  “What the hell is going on?” I shouted. “Oh my G—Look! It’s a beak! A freaking seagull landed on the camera! He’s pecking the lens!”

  “That son of a—where’s my gun?” Freddie yelled.

  “It’s not live,” I said, swatting him. “Besides, you don’t own a gun.”

  “This is making me think I totally should, though.”

  Freddie and I watched the screen helplessly as the bobbing head of the gull moved in and out of the shot. We were taking turns pointing and shouting things like “There! Nope. Is that—I can’t tell—No! Move your stupid bird head!”

  A minute later, I said, “Wait! I think it’s gone. Is that a man leaving? Was he talking to them?”

  Freddie and I leaned in again.

  “I don’t know,” Freddie muttered.

  “Marg’s still there with Mr. Masterson, but I don’t see where Tweety got to … oh my God!” I shouted, pointing at the screen. Marg had whacked Mr. Masterson on the ba
ck, hard.

  “Quiet voices, dears,” Ms. Robinson called from the top of the stairs.

  “Erica’s sorry, Ms. Robinson!” Freddie called back without turning his face from the TV. He also yanked my arm down so he could watch Marg Johnson reaching into her purse with her free hand while still holding on to Mr. Masterson with the other.

  “She’s going to give him something!”

  Freddie and I both pushed toward the screen.

  “What is it? What is it!” I shouted watching her pass something over.

  “I don’t know!”

  He reached a hand out to accept a—

  The machine suddenly made a horrible flapping sound right before—

  “What’s happening?”

  —it clunked to stop.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “No! Come on!”

  We both stared at the snow-filled TV screen.

  Freddie clutched his hair. “Why does this keep happening to us?”

  Freddie’s computer had died the last time we’d had a critical moment like this.

  “Because we need better equipment!” I shouted. “Not super fancy—”

  “So help me,” Freddie snapped, “if you bring up Lightning one more time!”

  I slammed back into my seat. “We were so close.” I rocked my head side-to-side.

  “I love how when things get exciting it’s all we.”

  I slapped my hands over my face and muttered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I dropped my hands. “If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have had this tape in the first place. I just thought that we’d have proof that Tweety didn’t do it.” Despite all of my harsh feelings about Marg, I didn’t really want to believe that she had murdered Mr. Masterson either. It was hard to imagine people you know doing such things, but still, better her than Tweety. “Maybe it is enough for like … reasonable doubt. Let’s go over to the police station and—”

  “Slow your roll there, missy,” Freddie said gingerly trying to remove the tape from the VCR. I hissed as he pulled out the thin bit of tape the machine was clinging to. “This is a whole boatload of reasonable doubt here, and as far as the tape is concerned, we can fix this.”

  “No, we cannot! We might wreck it.”