by Joyce Lavene
Give ‘Em Pumpkin to Talk About
By
Joyce and Jim Lavene
A Pumpkin Patch Mystery
©Copyright 2015
Joyce and Jim Lavene
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Give ‘Em Pumpkin to Talk About
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-Four
About the Authors
Chapter One
“Who are you?” Her heart pounded as she struggled to get the small handgun out of her purse after he’d popped up from the tall grass. “What are you doing here?”
“Whoa.” He held up his hands. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”
“I’m actually from right here. Not that it has anything to do with you. I’m calling the sheriff.”
He leaned closer, his eyes locking with hers. He still held his hands at shoulder height. “Sarah? Is that you?”
“I’m the one asking the questions.” She shook the gun at him. This was the only time she’d held the weapon since she’d taken lessons to get her license. “You haven’t answered yet—who are you, and why are you on my property?”
The conversation was made more difficult by the tall man in ragged jeans and flannel shirt grinning at her the whole time. If he was afraid, she couldn’t tell it. She’d shaken the gun at him thinking he might not have noticed it. People in Misty River tended to use shotguns and rifles. Her miniscule handgun probably wasn’t very impressive.
“Well.” He squinted, looking away from her toward the tall grass that seemed to grow everywhere on the old farm. “I live here. My name is Jack. And you should never pull a gun on someone unless you’re going to use it.”
Sarah yelped as he snatched the gun from her, emptied the bullets, and then handed it back.
“Bad things could happen,” he continued.
“Well obviously I’d planned to use it,” she argued. “Get off my land.”
He smiled, showing even white teeth in the midst of an overwhelming brown beard that seemed to cover everything on his face but his cheerful, blue eyes. “No one else from the family has been here for sixteen years. What made you show up all of a sudden?”
She wished she still had the option of pulling out the gun. Now she was at a disadvantage.
“That’s none of your business. Just leave before you go to jail.”
His interested gaze scanned her from head to toe. She could imagine that he was even more amused by her threats as she stood there in her polite, navy blue suit and heels, her straight, shoulder-length blond hair full of seeds and nettles from the grass and weeds.
“Not to brag,” he said with a smile. “But it would take a lot more than you and the sheriff to get rid of me.”
Sarah didn’t know what else to say and thought of retreating back through the tall grass to get away from him. She couldn’t hope to throw him off the property by herself, but his bragging about no one being able to send him away made her angry.
“Sarah?” Her friend, Hunter, yelled from the front of the house where her car was parked. “Are you out there?”
“I’m here,” she shouted. When she looked back, the raggedy man was gone. Had she imagined him? No. The bullets he’d emptied from her gun were still on the ground. “Just a minute. I’m headed your way.”
She crouched to pick them up and didn’t waste any time getting back to what seemed like civilization—the front of the property where the grass had been cut. She snagged her jacket, and probably ruined her heels, as she sprinted through the weeds.
Hunter Ollson was waiting for her, a hand at her forehead trying to shade her deep blue eyes from the sun. “I didn’t realize you wanted to walk the property. I would’ve come with you. It’s kind of wild, isn’t it?”
“It’s been a long time. I didn’t expect it to be landscaped but not this bad either. And I didn’t plan to walk out there—it just kind of happened.”
How could Sarah explain the excitement that had welled up in her when she’d pulled up to the house? It had been like being a child again. The last time she’d been here was when she was twelve—the day her grandparents had vanished.
It was a long story that seemed like ancient history and one she didn’t want to burden Hunter with. She had been glad that her friend from college was willing to come to Misty River with her to check on the property. Hunter had been in Richmond on business when Sarah’s mother had asked her to take care of the abandoned farm.
“Wow! How big is this anyway?” Hunter asked.
“A hundred and eighty acres.” Sarah looked up at the old white, two-story house that needed painting. There were places on the roof where the shingles were missing and a few of the stairs on the porch looked bad. But it was still as beautiful and special as it had been to her as a child.
Her mother had been born here. Sarah had spent every moment she could from the time she could first remember helping with the pumpkin patch, the corn shucking, and bean picking. She’d known the place by heart from the river to the cornfields and the old stone well. She’d helped her grandfather repair the old tree swing and the tractor. They’d picked cucumbers and baled hay.
The sign that said Misty River Pumpkin Patch was barely hanging by a single chain at the front of the drive. Other parts of the property—the barn, corn silo, and garage where the tractor was kept—were in bad shape too. The walls were collapsing, and one of the roofs had holes in it.
But what wonderful memories she had of growing up here. Even the dismal, real-life appearance of the property couldn’t stop her from eagerly walking out on the land she once loved so well. She could almost believe she was running to greet her grandparents again. How she wished it were true.
“I can’t believe your family just wants to get rid of the place.” Hunter’s blond hair was almost white in the strong September sunshine. She was six-feet tall, statuesque rather than thin, and as beautiful as a model. “I wish my family had a farm like this. It would be great for the weekends. You still seem to like the old place. Why not keep it?”
Realizing they’d reached the part where she’d have to explain what had happened here that had soured her family and left a pall on the land for them, Sarah was glad to see her
real estate agent roll up in a Nash Realty pickup.
Mace Nash lived locally and had seemed the perfect person to sell the land for Sarah, her mother, and brother. Sarah shook his hand and introduced herself.
Mr. Nash’s narrow, brown eyes passed between her and Hunter in appreciation. “Two pretty young blonds! Somebody’s looking out for me today! Welcome to Misty River.”
He shook hands with Hunter, lingering over her touch, and then seemed to remember that he was there to do business.
“I have the papers ready.” He laid them out on the hood of his red pickup for her to sign. “The land is worth some money. Probably ten or fifteen thousand per acre. No one wants to restore the old place. Too bad. I always brought my kids here in the fall for the pumpkins and the ride in the hay wagon. Your grandparents were good people.”
Sarah didn’t want to talk about it as she signed the documents to allow Nash Realty to represent her in the sale of the property. She didn’t belong here anymore. She had a life in Richmond working as an attorney for a Virginia state senator.
“You ever hear from them?” he asked. “Or figure out what happened? People still wonder.”
“No.” Sarah wished she didn’t have to talk about it. Thinking about it was hard enough.
Her grandparents had disappeared one night in late August. Her mother had brought her out to see them on the busiest weekend of the year—the start of pumpkin season. But they’d been gone. The kitchen table had been set. The plates had beans and potatoes on them as though they were about to sit down and eat. There’d still been a cast-iron skillet with cornbread in it on the stove. But no sign of her grandparents.
Later she’d learned from her mother that the sheriff had investigated. There was no blood. No signs of foul play. It was as though someone or something had just lifted them up and carried them away.
Hunter didn’t say anything about Sarah’s grandparents, but she knew she’d heard Mr. Nash’s remark.
“People were real surprised to see someone from the family come back to town.” He looked at her signature on the three documents and then handed her one of the copies. “We thought someone else might pay the back taxes and buy the place. I guess your mother wasn’t interested in it, huh?”
“Let’s just say that she’s very busy and the taxes got overlooked,” Sarah replied. “But it’s taken care of now. The land is in my name, so I can handle any problems that come up. Thank you for your help, Mr. Nash.”
“Call me Mace.” He shook her hand. “I wish someone wanted to tackle setting all this up again. You know, there are still pumpkins growing in the field every fall. They’re hard to get to, but they’re the biggest ones you ever saw. The kids still sneak in here.”
“No. I didn’t know.” She thought about the man she’d met in the field—Jack. “What about people squatting here? I met someone who said he lives here.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. I think he’s an old friend of your grandfather’s. Harmless, I’m sure. They were in the military together or some such. Sometimes he scares the kids while they’re looking for pumpkins. They say he’s not right in the head from his time in the war.”
“Could you do something about that? And get the land cleared? I think between the weeds and the crazy man, most buyers would be scared off.”
“Yes, ma’am. I can take care of that, and I’ll have the power turned on by tomorrow so I can show the place at night if I need to. Good meeting you. I have your email and phone number. I’ll let you know when the offers come in.”
They shook hands. Sarah got in her rental car with Hunter and drove away.
She had to fight with herself not to look back. There was still one more sign for the pumpkin patch at the end of the road where it met the main highway. It had been the last sign she’d helped her grandmother draw and paint. The childish images of pumpkins and horses were done by her hand. They brought a smile to her face.
Her mother called as they headed toward the hotel in Suffolk. There were still no commercial lodgings in Misty River—only a gas station/convenience store, Nash Realty, and a sandwich shop. It had never grown more than that.
“Have you signed the papers?” her mother asked, obviously talking to someone else while she was on the phone. “When are you coming back?”
“The papers are signed,” Sarah said. “I won’t be back until sometime tomorrow. Hunter and I are seeing the sights and having dinner tonight before she has to head back to Charlotte.”
“All right, sweetie. I’ll see you when you get back. Your father got us tickets for that new exhibit at the art museum next week. Maybe we can have dinner at that French place you like so well.”
Sarah rolled her eyes at Hunter as she turned on the interstate. “You don’t have to try to fill every minute of my day, right? I’m fine, Mom. I can handle being alone.”
“I know you can. I saw that no-good ex-husband of yours today at the courthouse. You’re lucky to be rid of him. There’s someone better out there for you.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later. Tell Dad I love him.”
She knew both her parents were trying to smooth the transition from married to single for her. Her divorce had only been finalized a few weeks ago. But she and Alan hadn’t lived together in more than two years. She loved them for worrying about her, but sometimes Alan already seemed like a distant memory of her past.
Hunter laughed. “You should’ve told her we were going to singles bars and hooking up with strippers.”
“Yeah if I wanted her down here with me tonight! You know how she is.”
“No worse than my mother. She’s still trying to cope with Sam being gay. I think part of her still thinks he’s going to become a surgeon like she always wanted, get married to the right girl, and have lots of babies.”
Sarah knew she was right. She’d met Hunter and Sam at college. She’d had a huge crush on Sam. He was a couple of years younger than them, but he was gorgeous.
“How are you handling the break up? We haven’t talked about it at all,” Hunter pointed out.
“I know. What’s left to say? We’ve gone over it a hundred times.”
Sarah’s marriage had been a tale of neither of them looking around enough before they got married. They’d gone to college together, attended the same parties. Their parents knew each other, and it was the most natural thing in the world to say ‘yes’ when Alan had proposed.
They’d had a huge wedding and a honeymoon in the Caribbean. They both had great jobs with big name law firms and a beautiful house. It seemed as though their future was assured.
Something had happened between the late hours they worked and different ideas about what was important. Sarah had met Senator Clare Rosemond at a fundraiser and was immediately impressed by her. When the senator had offered her a job, she’d taken it without questioning what effect it would have on Alan. It had turned into a month-long argument that represented their differing viewpoints about the world. It seemed nothing was the same after.
Months before their married life was officially over, Alan was dating again. Sarah only wished him well, glad it was finally done.
She pulled the rental car into the parking spot she’d left before heading out to Misty River. The hotel was small and quiet, located on the Nansemond River. Hunter went to her room and Sarah checked her messages. There was nothing important.
A friend of Hunter’s was on her way back to Charlotte, North Carolina from the Outer Banks. She was making a side trip to have dinner with them before she went home.
Sarah sighed as she saw the grass and wild flowers stuck in her hair. Her clothes were full of tick seeds and pulled by the thorns she’d walked through. Her face was sunburned, and her shoes were ruined from the muddy field.
It wasn’t surprising that the crazy squatter hadn’t taken her seriously.
She got in the shower to wash away the memories of that frightening encounter, but she couldn’t get rid of her thoughts regarding the man. He said he knew that no on
e had lived there for sixteen years.
Was that the same teenage boy she remembered? He’d had a troubled home life, according to her grandparents. They’d asked him to stay with them when he couldn’t go home. He’d helped out on the farm. She’d been jealous of him because she’d wanted to stay there too.
She couldn’t remember his name. Could he still be living there? Had anyone questioned him about what happened to her grandparents? Had he been cleared of any possible wrongdoing in that regard?
It had been such a long time ago. Sarah lay back on her bed and closed her eyes.
She’d only been a child that August day when she couldn’t find her grandparents. Her father had come to take her home while her mother had handled the police and whatever else had been done. No one ever talked about it much.
Between then and now had been filled with becoming an adult, school, and trying to figure out her own life. No questions that had formed in her younger mind had ever been answered. She’d mostly forgotten how terrible that day had been—until she’d stepped foot in Misty River again.
Suddenly she wanted all the answers and wasn’t sure if she could go home to her normal life without knowing what had really happened to those people she’d loved so much. After all this time, was it possible to learn the truth?
Chapter Two
There was plenty of time before dinner to phone the county sheriff’s office that represented Misty River and the surrounding areas. Sarah had no idea what had been done to find her grandparents or if the sheriff still considered their disappearance as an open case.
The deputy who answered the phone put her through to Sheriff Bill Morgan. They went through some small talk as he asked after her family and said he was happy to speak with her.
“That case has been in my file for so long that I’ve almost given up on it,” he admitted. “There was never any evidence that Tommy and Bess didn’t just decide to leave that night and never come back. I apologize if that idea is painful for you.”
“Except, as I remember, their truck and car were still in the driveway.”