Pumpkin Picking with Murder

by Auralee Wallace

“Oh right. I forgot that part.” Freddie tapped his finger in the air. “You know, we need a flow chart or something to keep everything straight. Ooh! Or a whiteboard!”

  I headed back up the lawn. “Let’s just go.”

  Freddie and I walked around to the front of the house. Both of us were slightly out of breath by the time we got to the door. We really needed to work on our cardio if we were going to—I gave my head a shake before I finished the thought. I reached forward, grabbed the heavy door knocker, and gave it a good rap.

  We waited half a minute or so before I said, “Maybe she’s not home.”

  Freddie screwed up his face. “Let’s give her a little more time. It’s a big place.”

  We waited another minute or two before I reached forward to give the door another rap. Just as my fingers touched the knocker, the door jerked. I snatched my hand back. Freddie snickered.

  The door swung open, bringing a woman into view. “Peter, we’ve been over this. I—” She stopped abruptly when she saw us.

  It took everything in me to prevent my jaw from hitting my chest. I shot a quick look to Freddie. I could tell he was having the same problem. Mrs. Masterson was … stunning. I mean, growing up, I had seen her at a number of community events giving speeches and stuff—she was on a lot of committees—but never actually up close. She kind of reminded me of Audrey Hepburn in the way she held herself, but a little more … hard?

  “I’m sorry. I thought you were my gardener,” she said. “I do not patronize solicitors.” She moved to close the door.

  “Wait,” I said stepping forward. “Mrs. Masterson?”

  She blinked and turned her large green eyes to mine.

  “My name is Erica Bloom. Summer Bloom’s daughter?” I held up the brown paper bag. For a brief moment, I was worried it might be pot. “I brought you some of my mother’s tea.”

  “Oh! Forgive me,” she said, pushing the door back open. “Come in. Come in. And bring your handsome friend.”

  My eyes darted over to Freddie. His eyes rounded as he mouthed the words, Handsome friend? I love her.

  We both stepped into the palatial foyer then stopped dead.

  “Oh great Gatsby,” Freddie whispered, taking in the sight. “It’s better than I thought.”

  The floor was a classic white-and-black tile design, and two wrought-iron staircases curved up either side of the large room leading to the top floor. Dropped down in between was an enormous mirrored glass chandelier.

  “I can’t. It’s just too much,” Freddie whispered, taking in the silver geometric print of the wallpaper. “You have to marry Matthew. We need to hang out here. Oh! We can drink sidecars … or … or bee’s knees-es,” Freddie said, having some trouble making the word plural. “And I’ll have someone set off fireworks over the lake in the summer.”

  “Freddie, calm down,” I said under my breath. “You already live in a beautiful house.”

  “Not like this.”

  “Please try to stay focused.”

  “I don’t think I can. Oh, look through to the back living room. She has floaty white curtains. Can you just imagine them in the summer … in the breeze?”

  I looked the gauzy curtains over. They were beautiful. Everything was beautiful. I couldn’t imagine the amount of work involved in keeping up a house like this.

  “Mrs. Masterson,” Freddie said, trotting to catch up to her. “Your house is spectacular.”

  She smiled. “You are very kind.” Her eyes swept the room. “This house was my father’s dream. It needs a great deal of love and attention, but I think it’s worth it.”

  “Indeed,” Freddie answered eagerly.

  I struggled to keep my face friendly as Mrs. Masterson’s gaze swept in my direction. I was trying to figure out whether or not I was looking at a woman who was capable of killing both her father and husband … and my suspicions kept creeping up into my face.

  “Please, come in,” she said, gently waving us forward once again, her long jeweled fingers swirling in the air. “I don’t have the help I used to, but I’m sure I can find us some iced tea or lemonade.”

  Freddie waited for me to catch up before he whispered, “Don’t you just love her eyes!”

  “Her eyes?”

  “She’s got those big doe eyes. You know, like Mia Farrow in the early days.”

  “I think maybe it’s just a thyroid problem.”

  He swatted my arm.

  “Sorry. You’re right. They’re great eyes,” I whispered hurriedly, “but before you get completely swept away, let’s remember why we’re here.”

  “Right. Right,” Freddie muttered. “But I don’t know if I can! I feel swept away.”

  “Obviously, I don’t need to marry Matthew,” I said. “You can just marry Mrs. Masterson.”

  “Don’t joke. There is a part of me that would really love that.”

  “You are so weird.”

  I walked into the grand sitting room after Mrs. Masterson. The view was spectacular. Even better than Freddie’s. I really could see fireworks going off above the lake. This manse certainly knew how to sell a dream.

  “Now what can I get for the two of you?”

  “Nothing … please,” I said. “We really just wanted to express our condolences about Mr. Masterson’s passing.” Not going to lie, I felt a pretty bad twinge of conscience, but it was for the greater good. Besides, we really weren’t doing anything other than making conversation. It wasn’t like we were about to try out some advanced interrogation techniques.

  “Thank you, dear. I’m not quite sure how I will get on without Mick, but I suppose it is all God’s plan.”

  Huh. Somebody’s plan. Not sure if I’d blame it on God. I couldn’t help but notice she wasn’t exactly beside herself with grief, but then again, in fairness, if Mr. Masterson had been unfaithful, could I blame her? Plus, she kind of had the air of a woman who had practice wearing a public face. Hard to say if we were seeing the real her.

  “How long were you two married?” Freddie asked.

  “Nearly fifty years,” she said with another smile.

  “That’s amazing. What was your secret?”

  For the briefest moment, Mrs. Masterson’s face hardened. “Determination.”

  Freddie chuckled … nervously.

  Her smile snapped back into place. “I think young people give up too easily these days.” She looked out the windows, twisting the wedding band still on her finger. “I knew at a young age the life I wanted—the legacy I was gifted to carry on—I never wavered from that vision.”

  Freddie and I exchanged looks. I wondered how Mr. Masterson’s infidelity fit into that vision. Then almost as if she could read my thoughts she said, “Mick was the same way. He certainly wasn’t a perfect man, but he was devoted to me”—her eyes snapped to mine—“to the very end.”

  I froze. I suddenly felt very guilty by my association with Tweety.

  “Well … that’s just lovely,” Freddie said, clapping his hands together and flashing an overly big smile. “Mrs. Masterson, could I trouble you for a glass of water?”

  “Of course. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  Freddie waited until she had left the room then said, “Okay, the wedding’s off. She may be a little…” He grimaced and shook his head back and forth.

  “You think?” I whispered. “But it could just be the infidelity that has her so worked up.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But she stays at the top of the suspect list for now.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Would you look at these photographs, though.” Freddie moved to the piano. A number of framed pictures sat on the top. “She should have been in the movies.” He held up a black-and-white glamour shot. Mrs. Masterson with her classic high cheekbones and big eyes really was something else. I moved beside Freddie and picked up another photo. A wedding photo. They certainly were a gorgeous couple, but there was something about Mr. Masterson’s expression that left me cold. It wasn’t fair to judge—it was a
posed shot—but all of the hunger he’d had in that other photo with Tweety … well, it was all gone.

  A moment later Mrs. Masterson walked back in the room holding out a cut-crystal glass for Freddie. “I took the liberty of adding some mint and lem—”

  Suddenly a loud bang tore through the house.

  “Mother? Where are you?”

  Mrs. Masterson’s hand flew to her chest as Freddie and I jumped to our feet.

  “What were you thinking?”

  I looked nervously to the front of the house. I recognized Matthew’s voice, but I had never heard him sound quite so upset.

  “Tell me. Tell me that you didn’t—” Matthew stopped abruptly when he got to the mouth of the room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  Matthew’s fists, balled at his side, suddenly released. He brought one hand up to push his hair back. “Erica,” he said before taking a breath. “I’m glad you’re here. And no, everything is not all right.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “What’s going on?”

  “Kit Kat is outside.”

  “What?” I looked back out the window to the lake. I didn’t see her boat.

  “She drove here,” Matthew said. “She borrowed a police cruiser.”

  I groaned. “Why? Why would she—”

  “Apparently, my mother invited her.”

  We all turned to Mrs. Masterson.

  “I have questions that require answers,” she said, not shrinking from our gaze.

  “Maybe you could go talk to her?” Matthew suggested. “Given everything that’s happened, I really think it’s best that they don’t mingle.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  I hurried toward the door, just catching Freddie say, “So, Matthew…’sup?”

  The sun was nearly gone now, and the temperature had dropped with it. My eyes scanned the large driveway. Yup, right there, around the last bend, sat a police cruiser.

  I jogged toward the car. What the hell was she thinking? Borrowing a cruiser? Grady would just love that. It would do wonders for his reputation.

  I slowed the last few feet. I could see she wasn’t in the car. Her white hair and dentures had a tendency to glow in the dark.

  “Kit Kat?”

  Nothing.

  I turned back toward the house and called her name again.

  A cold wind spun a pile of dried leaves by my feet.

  “Kit Kat! Seriously, where are you?”

  The gloom settling over the trees played tricks with my eyes, melding shadows together.

  I turned in a slow circle as a bad feeling tiptoed its way up my spine.

  Then, in the corner of my eye—something moved. Just by the footpath leading into the trees.

  I ran toward it, muttering, “So help me, you had better not be messing around.”

  The trees closed in atop me as I entered the trail. I still had the light seeping in from the lake side of the path, but in minutes I wouldn’t be able to see my hand in front of my face.

  I walked with slow, deliberate steps, not wanting to trip over any branches or tree roots. Worn bits of gravel crunched underneath my feet. I didn’t like this at all. I should probably just head back and get Matthew and Freddie … and maybe a flashlight.

  I balled my fists against the cold. “Kit Kat?”

  Nothing.

  Yeah, this was getting ridiculous. It was really dark now, and I couldn’t even be sure that I had seen anything. She could have snuck around to the back of the house for all I knew. She could be inside. The path slanted upward. Where the hell did this thing lead? I took a breath and thought, Just to the top of the hill. I’d get to the top, look around, and if there was nothing—which I was positive was the case—I’d go back down and get help. I opened my mouth to call Kit Kat’s name again but quickly snapped it shut. Maybe it was the dark, or the rustling wind—or maybe the fact that there was a murderer on the loose—but suddenly I had the distinct feeling I was being watched.

  Just to the top.

  I took another step but a sudden scurrying to my left made me jolt so hard I nearly cracked my spine. “Freaking squirrels,” I muttered, wrapping my jacket more tightly around me. Almost there.

  I crested the hill. My shoulders dropped in relief as my eyes darted over a clearing with a little stone bench overlooking the lake. It was kind of pretty actually. I walked toward the small seat, looking up at the first few stars darting the sky … then froze.

  Something lay on the ground right in front of the bench.

  No. No. No.

  It wasn’t something … it was someone. Someone with white hair.

  “No!”

  I launched into a sprint.

  My feet skidded to a stop a foot or so back from the bench. It took me a second to figure out what I was seeing. It wasn’t Kit Kat. It was a man covered in blood from a head wound … a fatal head wound by the look of it. My eyes darted to the shovel lying on the ground a few feet away.

  My head started to shake of its own accord as my feet moved back.

  This couldn’t be happening … not another murder.

  I was just about to turn and run when—

  “Kit Kat! Oh God, no!”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “You just always seem to be turning up dead bodies, Erica,” Rhonda Cooke, deputy at large, said. She leaned back in her chair and plopped her feet up on the corner of her desk. “How do you do it?”

  A couple of hours had passed since I had found groundskeeper Peter Clarke and Kit Kat. Kit Kat was still alive when I had found her—I could still feel the small bump of her pulse under my fingertips—but the ambulance had taken her away, and we had yet to be given an update.

  Now I was seated in Otter Lake’s sheriff’s department being questioned by Rhonda.

  “Well? Erica? How do you do it?”

  “Rhonda, I’m really sorry,” I said, rubbing my face with both hands. “But I don’t have time for this, so could we please skip the thinly veiled questions? Just say what you want to say.”

  Her face dropped into something pretty earnest. “No, I really want to know how you keep turning up dead bodies.” She dropped her feet off the desk and leaned toward me to whisper, “It could help my career.”

  I gripped the arms of my chair. “I can’t do this right now. I have to find out what’s going on with Kit Kat.”

  She nodded but waved me down. “Erica, I know you’re worried, but I promise, as soon as we know something, you will. In the meantime, you have to help us find whoever did this.”

  I slumped back in the chair, resting my head against its hard wooden back.

  “Erica? That you?” a voice called out.

  I shot up, giving Rhonda a quizzical look. She just closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “Tweety?” I shouted, leaning back to look down a hallway. I couldn’t see anything … well, except a hand waving into the open space.

  “What are you doing here?” the hand asked with a point.

  “Ms. Bloom,” Rhonda said. “Please ignor—”

  I lunged across the desk toward her and hissed, “Don’t you tell her about Kit Kat until we know if—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. “Not unless you’re going to let her go to the hospital.”

  “I can’t authorize that,” Rhonda whispered back.

  “Then don’t you say anything,” I said, slowly sitting back in my chair.

  Rhonda considered me for a moment then said, “Erica, don’t take this the wrong way … but you’re kind of freaking me out right now.”

  “I’m done playing.”

  She looked at me sideways. “Okay, what does that mean? And before you answer, I feel I should remind you that you’re talking to a police officer.”

  “Nobody,” I said, jabbing a finger on top of the desk, “messes with my family, Rhonda.” I watched her eyes widen with concern. “I’m gonna find whoever did this and—”

  “What’s
this about finding a body?” Tweety shouted from the hall. “I told you to stay out of it!”

  I struggled to figure out what to say. Probably sticking as close to the truth as possible was the best bet. “Yeah, I found a body.”

  “Another one?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “At least they can’t pin that one on me,” the voice cackled from the back. “Are they trying to pin it on you?”

  I looked to Rhonda for the answer. She shrugged. I kept my eyes on her but turned my face to the hallway. “Too soon to tell.”

  “Okay, okay,” Rhonda said. “Could we please get back to—”

  “So who was it?”

  “Peter Clarke,” I shouted. “Do you know—”

  “Erica! Stop it!” Rhonda yelled. “You just can’t go telling her police stuff until we’re ready to tell her police stuff!”

  My eyes whipped back to hers. She popped her hands up.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Tweety shouted. “Now, who did you say got offed?”

  “Erica,” Rhonda said, setting her jaw. “Don’t answer that.”

  I considered Rhonda for a moment and took a breath. I wasn’t upset with her. She was just trying to do her job. Besides, the less I said to Tweety the better. I really didn’t want to let anything slip about Kit Kat until we had news. It would kill her. “You’ll hear the whole story soon.”

  “What kind of answer is that?” Tweety shouted. “Erica? Rhonda?”

  Rhonda clunked her head against the desk. “All day it’s like this. Yap, yap, yap.” She flung her head up. “Okay,” she said, dropping her voice. “Let’s ignore Tweety and get back to the questioning. Why don’t you tell me again why you were at Hemlock Estate.”

  “Hemlock Estate!” the voice screeched from down the hall. “What were you doing at Hemlock Estate?”

  Rhonda jumped to her feet and leaned across her desk, shouting down the hall, “Tweety, I’ve told you about a thousand times already, I ask the questions.”

  “Ah, you’re just jealous,” Tweety shouted back, her hand giving a dismissive flop in the air.

  “Jealous?” I asked Rhonda, who was lowering herself back in her seat.

  “She questions everyone who comes in,” Rhonda said tiredly. “Okay, so fine, she was right about Mr. McCloud’s stolen wallet being in his other back pocket, but for the most part she’s just a real pain in the—”