Pumpkin Picking with Murder

by Auralee Wallace

  “Wow,” Grady said. “I have been busting my ass trying to keep you and Freddie out of jail and—” He held his hands up. “Erica, you and Freddie were off-roading a backhoe in the middle of the night. We got a call. A bunch of them actually. Mr. Connelly saw you from across the lake with his telescope.”

  I rubbed my face again. “We’re idiots, Grady. I’m sorry. We went too far.”

  “I get it. Look, if I were you, I’d let Freddie drag me into these, what? Adventures? He’s something else.” He pointed a finger at me. “Don’t tell him I said that. And you guys do have a way of … shaking evidence loose. But take that video from the fair, for example. Freddie making me get a subpoena? Really? I’m on your side.” He shook his head. “But you’re right. The truth is I’m not you. I’m not Freddie. And this isn’t high school. I have rules to follow. Laws.” He paused again. “You know what I was doing when I left you guys in the cruiser over at Hemlock Estate?”

  “What?”

  “I had to tell Mrs. Masterson what you two had done.”

  A sick heat flooded my cheeks.

  “I know you guys think she’s a murderer—hell, maybe she is—but hearing about her father?” He shook his head. “She broke down. And it wasn’t the Mrs. Masterson we’re all used to seeing around town.” He sighed. “Not exactly how I wanted to spend my night, you know?”

  I swore quietly under my breath. “Grady, it was my idea to dig up the grave. Freddie didn’t want to.”

  Silence fell over us again.

  Finally Grady said, “I gotta be done, Erica.”

  I looked out the window, not seeing anything. “I guess the grave digging was a bridge too far, huh?”

  He pinched his lips together and nodded slowly.

  “But Grady,” I said, hating the sound of begging in my voice. “I know what we did was wrong, but … when I found Kit Kat lying in the grass, bleeding … I don’t know. Things changed. I really didn’t believe Mr. Ramsbottom was buried there, but even so, I never should have taken the chance. But … but, I don’t know what I’m trying to say here.” I took a moment to collect my thoughts. Finally I said, “You do know if you were in jail facing murder charges, Freddie and I would dig up a grave for you too. You know that, right?”

  He let out a surprised bark of laughter. “I … suppose on some level I do.”

  I sighed. “But I guess that doesn’t change where we’re at right now.”

  “No … it doesn’t.”

  I wiped at the tears in my eyes. “I also want to make sure that you know when it comes to how I feel … about you…” I stopped, unable to find the words.

  “I know, Erica. It’s okay.” He threw me a half smile. “I guess the timing’s still not right.”

  “I guess.” I slapped at the metal cage separating us.

  “Don’t hit the grate,” Grady said. “If Rhonda sees you do that, she might pull her gun.”

  “Really?” I asked, glancing over to the steps of the sheriff’s department. “Because … I think she’s bringing us ice cream.”

  Grady smiled at Rhonda, who was holding two bowls up in the air. “I do love this town.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  After ice cream on the steps of the sheriff’s department, Grady told Rhonda to take me to Tweety’s cell. I could tell he didn’t exactly want me rooming with her, but space was limited, and he probably felt she was the better option over Freddie.

  We barely made it into the building before I heard Tweety shout, “What’s going on? Is Kit Kat okay?”

  “No change,” Rhonda shouted back.

  “She knows?” I asked.

  Rhonda nodded.

  “Erica, is that you?”

  “It’s me.” I walked down the hallway.

  “Oh for the love of—”

  “I know.” I held up a hand once I got into view. “Okay? You don’t have to say it. I know.”

  “I told you to stay out of this.”

  “I know!”

  “Well, come on in,” Tweety said, stepping away from the bars. “But I get the bed.”

  I glanced over to the one cot against the wall then looked to Rhonda.

  “I’ll find you something,” she said, turning her key in the lock. “At least a sleeping bag.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You want to shower? I mean I have to watch you and everything, but—”

  I put up a hand. “Let’s hold off on that for a bit. I just want to sit down.”

  “Rhonda, hon,” Tweety said. “Get Erica and me some drinks, would you? Something with a bite. We’ve got things to discuss.”

  “Sure, I—wait,” she said, wagging a finger. “Fool me once.”

  Tweety dropped herself heavily down onto the cot, making the springs groan. “Worth a shot.”

  I sat on the floor on the other side of the concrete room.

  Tweety’s watery blue eyes trailed over me. She looked tired. “What have you been doing? Wrestling pigs?”

  “I wish,” I mumbled. I looked over to the little table in the corner. Pretty sure that wasn’t standard prison decoration. Neither were the cans of soda on it, the celebrity magazines, the half-eaten bag of chips, the prescription bottle—Tweety had the diabetes, go figure—or the box of takeout from the Dawg. “You got a pretty nice setup here.”

  “No chitchat,” Tweety said, cutting the air with her hand. “Spill. Why are you here?”

  “I—” I cut myself off and looked up at the ceiling, but that only made my eyes well up. The entire night suddenly seemed … nuts. “I … Freddie and I, we dug up Mr. Ramsbottom’s grave, well, memorial site.”

  Tweety’s face went slack. Then she blinked a few times.

  “Again, I know, okay?” I said, looking out the bars to the blank wall of the hallway. “I don’t need your judgment too.”

  Suddenly Tweety snorted. My eyes shot back to her. Yup, arms crossed over belly, body bouncing up and down—then the eruption of laughter. I shook my head and looked back out the bars.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” she said, wiping tears from her the folds of her eyes. “I mean, how did you even dig it up?”

  “Backhoe,” I said flatly, picking at a flaked bit of concrete on the floor. “Freddie owns a backhoe.”

  She laughed even harder at that.

  After a few more minutes of hysterics, Tweety calmed down and said, “I wish Kit Kat had been here for that.” She shook her head. “Jesus, Erica.”

  “I know.” I let out a hiss after the flake of concrete I was picking jabbed me underneath my fingernail. I brought it to my mouth. “I know.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  I rested my wrists on my knees and turned my palms to the ceiling. “Mr. Carver, Otter Lake’s old librarian, told us there was a rumor that Mr. Ramsbottom left Hemlock Estate to Kit Kat. He said there might be evidence in the memorial coffin.” I put air quotes around “coffin.”

  Tweety’s face hardened. “I see. And what exactly did you find in the coffin?”

  “Mr. Ramsbottom.”

  Her eyes widened again and she burst out into more laughter. “He’s not supposed to be in there!”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said, looking away. “We found a letter too. Turns out he didn’t leave Hemlock Estate to Kit Kat.”

  “No kidding,” Tweety said through the laughter. “I could have told you that.”

  My eyes snapped back to hers. “Except you haven’t been telling me much of anything.”

  Tweety’s laughter died pretty quickly, and it was her turn to look away.

  “Nope,” I said, dropping my hands between my knees. “Mr. Ramsbottom didn’t leave anything to Kit Kat.” I inhaled deeply. “Didn’t want to leave anything to his daughter either.”

  Tweety’s eyes snapped back to mine.

  “Turns out, this letter was to his lawyer. A letter saying he wanted to change his will,” I said, studying Tweety’s face.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “He wante
d to leave Hemlock Estate to the town.”

  Tweety held my eyes for a moment then made a scoffing sound before looking away.

  “I wonder why he’d do that?” I asked, picking some grave dirt off my wrist. “Must have been pretty upset with his daughter. I thought Hemlock Estate was meant to be a legacy thing.”

  Tweety flicked her eyes to mine but said nothing.

  “I’m thinking maybe he didn’t like her choice of fiancé?”

  She didn’t even look at me this time.

  “I mean, from what I hear, Mr. Masterson, Mick, was a little rough around the edges back in the day.” I tapped the air with a finger and squinted. “Not exactly the type of guy Mr. Ramsbottom would want for a son-in-law.”

  Tweety shook her head, face still turned.

  “But I also heard that Mrs. Masterson, back then Olivia Ramsbottom, wasn’t the type of girl to take no for an answer. What Olivia wants, Olivia gets.”

  Tweety huffed a dry laugh.

  “Would have given her a pretty good motive to murder her father if that’s what actually happened.”

  Tweety whipped her face back around. “It was a heart attack. Everyone knows it was a heart attack.”

  “Come on, Tweety.” I shook my head. “I know that you didn’t kill Mr. Ramsbottom. I know that you didn’t kill Mr. Masterson. You are not a murderer. But what did you do?”

  She pinched her lips together a moment then said, “You sure about this letter? You read it yourself?”

  “I’m sure. I did.”

  She ran a hand across her lips.

  “What? Just tell me what you’re thinking. What this means to you.”

  “Nothing,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  I sighed. “Really?”

  Tweety shot me a withering look.

  “Fine. At least tell me what Mr. Masterson wanted with you that day.”

  Tweety’s face twisted into confusion then dropped. “You mean, at the fair?”

  I nodded even though her reaction kind of begged the question of how many different days I needed to ask her about.

  “Dumb old dog wanted to run away with me.” She chuckled faintly. “Said his whole life had been a lie. That the money wasn’t worth leaving me.” She shook her head. “At least I think he said that. He was having trouble staying awake. I didn’t realize…” Some emotion crossed her face, but it was too quick to read. “Can you believe that? After all these years?”

  “What did you say to him?”

  A devilish smile broke out across her face. “I told him to go f—”

  “Whoa!” I shouted, holding my hands up.

  She shrugged and then sighed through her nose. “I really did love him back then. Figured out pretty quick he wasn’t who I thought he was, but it was hard to let go of the … dream. Guess it still bothers me a bit.” She shook her head and looked off again. “Now that I think about it, despite all that stuff, what I said to him … well, they probably weren’t the best last words to give to a man.”

  I raised my eyebrows and nodded. “Probably not.”

  “But in fairness, I didn’t know he was dying.”

  “So why are you confessing?”

  Her eyes flicked to mine. “I’m old, Erica,” she said before taking a long pause. “And I made a promise a long, long time ago. I’m not about to break it now.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “You’re killing me. What promise?”

  She held up a finger for me to wait. “Rhonda?” she called out.

  “Yeah?”

  “You got this jail cell wired for sound?”

  “What? You mean, bugged?” Rhonda called back from down the hall.

  “Yeah.”

  “No. I mean … why?” A moment passed. “Maybe. I mean … shoot. No.”

  “Thanks, Rhonda,” Tweety turned back to me. I watched her swallow then lick her lips. “I’m going to tell you this, Erica, because maybe then you’ll see why you need to back off. But it doesn’t leave this room.”

  I nodded.

  “I made a vow to protect my sister.” A small shudder ran over her. “My mother made me promise her on her deathbed.”

  “But what are you protecting Kit Kat from?”

  She rolled her head back and forth against the concrete wall, looking up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Herself?”

  “Tweety, what are you saying?”

  “It was Kit Kat who killed Mr. Ramsbottom all those years ago.” She stopped for a moment then added, “And I’ve been trying to cover it up ever since.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  “No. Nope,” I said, shaking my head. I had to pinch my lips together for a moment to hold back the emotion bubbling up in my chest. “I don’t believe it. How?”

  She shrugged. “Poison, I think. We had monkshood in the garden. Someone said he had vomited in the tent.”

  “Did she confess any of this to you?”

  “No. She never did that.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “I knew there was something going on with her and Mr. Ramsbottom. I caught them talking once or twice, real passionate stuff.” She shook her head again. “But after he died, she started acting really strangely, and—”

  “That could be for a million different reasons,” I near-shouted before I caught myself. I leaned over to attempt a peek around the wall to see if Rhonda was listening, but I couldn’t get the angle. Tweety leaned and looked too then shook her head.

  “As I was saying,” I whispered. “Acting funny is not a confession. Half the people in this town—”

  “Then there was the letter.”

  Everything suddenly felt very cold. “What letter?”

  “Just a letter. Addressed to me.”

  I waited for her to keep going.

  “It said, I know what your sister did.”

  “Who sent it?”

  “Don’t know.”

  I stared at her a moment, dumbfounded. “Well, that doesn’t mean anything. It could’ve been the real murderer trying to pin it on Kit Kat. It could have been Olivia Masterson! Maybe she was worried the rumors were true and her father had left Hemlock Estate to Kit Kat and she wanted to scare you off asking questions. Maybe—”

  “Erica,” Tweety said, closing her eyes and waving me off. “I know my sister. The way she was acting … she couldn’t even look me in the eye afterward. I know.”

  “So what?” I tossed my hands in the air. “You just lived together all these years and never talked about it?”

  “It got easier after a while. Barely even thought about it much after a few years. It’s still Kit Kat,” she said, leaning toward me. “I couldn’t turn her in. And I knew she wasn’t going to do anything like that again.” She patted her chest. “I’d make sure of it. Well … at least I tried.”

  “So what? You think she killed Mr. Masterson too? Is that why you’re confessing?”

  She leaned farther away from me. “I don’t know, okay? She might have. If she thought he was going to hurt me again. But that’s neither here nor there. The letter said—”

  “The letter from fifty years ago?” I asked.

  “No. The new one.”

  “What new one? How new?”

  “I got it yesterday. I was sleeping. When I woke up, it was on the floor.”

  “In the jail? Tweety, what the—” I growled. “Did you tell someone? What did it say?”

  “Confess, or your sister will pay for her crime. I have proof.”

  “Tweety! Oh my God! Whoever wrote that note was the murderer! We have to find out who was here yesterday.” I jumped to my feet. “Rh—”

  A thin pillow smacked me in the face. Hard. “Ow!”

  “Quiet,” she ordered. “Don’t you dare.”

  “We have to—”

  “I already flushed the note,” she said pointing to the toilet. “I’m not taking any chances with Kit Kat. What if she’s got brain damage? How do you think a brain-damaged senior citizen’s goi
ng to do in prison, Erica?”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  “Not good,” she said. “That’s how.”

  “Tweety, I—” I couldn’t figure out what to say to her to bring some sense to the situation. “I just can’t. Nope. I don’t believe it. This is crazy! Kit Kat is not a murderer!” I rubbed my hand over my mouth. “There’s something more going on. And we are not going to let the person who is screwing with you just get away with it while you confess your way into prison.”

  “But I am guilty. I’ve been protecting Kit Kat all these years.”

  “She didn’t need protecting. This is bull—”

  “Erica,” Tweety snapped, pointing at the floor. “My mother wanted me to protect Kit Kat because I think she always knew there was something a little wrong with her. She wasn’t as strong as me. She never could control her emotions. I can take prison. Kit Kat can’t. You make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “You know,” I said, struggling to hang on to my emotions, “you can confess to killing about Mr. Masterson, and you can confess about Mr. Ramsbottom to protect your sister, but you can’t confess about Mr. Clarke. They’re already thinking Kit Kat may have murdered him last night.” I pointed to the foyer. “That her injuries were from him, fighting back.”

  Tweety’s face went white. She worked her lips a few times as though she wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Nah, I don’t buy it. She wouldn’t. Mr. Ramsbottom was a long time ago, and they had something going on. As for Mick, I don’t know. But not Peter Clarke. He was a good man. No.”

  “Tweety, I—”

  She pointed a wicked finger at me. “If things go south, you make sure that lawyer uncle of yours gets her into one of those facilities. Not prison. Someplace nice. With a lawn … and crafts.”

  “Kit Kat hates crafts!”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Tweety lay back onto the cot and rolled over to face the wall. “I’m going to sleep.”

  “What? Well that’s just great,” I said to her back. “Perfect. You know, I think I’m going to get my uncle to look into a facility for you … with crafts. You need it,” I mumbled. “And I still don’t believe it, by the way. I’m going to get to the bottom of all this.”