Gourd to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  I could guess what he wanted, and I forced a smile. “Chief Shaw, hi. How can I help you?”

  Heads swiveled along the counter. The kaffeeklatsch at the center tables went quiet.

  “A word alone,” Shaw said, “if you don’t mind?”

  “Sure.” I glanced at our goggling regulars. “We can talk in the back.”

  I led him behind the counter and to my spartan office. Metal desk. Metal shelves lined with boxes of supplies. An outdated desktop computer. All my decorating instincts had gone into the kitchen and dining areas.

  The VA calendar fluttered as he shut the door.

  “Are you ready for the fund-raiser?” the chief asked.

  I blinked, wrong-footed by the unexpected question. Maybe he was a better investigator than I’d thought. But I nodded. During the festival tomorrow, local cops would act as waitstaff at Pie Town. All their tips would go to the Police Athletic League, a children’s charity. It would be easy for the cops; people ordered at the counter, so all they had to do was bring pies to the tables. The coffee was usually self-serve, but I suspected the cops would give top-ups to work the tip angle. It had been Gordon’s idea, and I loved him more for it.

  “Good.” The chief pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his tracksuit and tapped the screen. “I’m speaking with Val Harris. It is six-thirty A.M. on Friday, the thirteenth of October. I’m recording this conversation,” he said to me as an aside. “Tell me about finding the body.”

  I explained about our walk down Main Street and the gruesome discovery.

  “And you say you abandoned your kitchen just to look at pumpkins?” His hawkish eyes narrowed.

  I stepped backward, my hip bumping the metal desk. “It was only supposed to be a quick peek.”

  “Of course, this isn’t the first body you’ve found.”

  “Well. No. But—”

  “Nor is it the first time I’ve had to remove Detective Carmichael from a case.”

  I didn’t respond. Gordon didn’t need me arguing on his behalf.

  “I’d say it was quite a coincidence,” he continued. “You find bodies and Detective Carmichael miraculously catches their killers.” His eyes narrowed. “But I don’t believe in coincidence. Do you believe in coincidence, Ms. Harris?”

  “Well, I mean, no, probably not, but it really was—”

  “Collusion?”

  I gulped. “What?”

  “You setting ’em up, and Carmichael knocking them down?”

  “Setting what up?” What was he saying? That I was murdering people so Gordon could solve the crimes?

  He tapped his phone and slipped it into his jacket’s inside pocket. “I’ll talk to Mrs. McCree now. Send her in. And I want you, the both of you, to stay out of my case, or I’ll arrest you for interfering.”

  Stunned, I tottered from the office and into the kitchen.

  At the butcher-block work island, Abril looked up from ladling apple filling into pie pastry. “Is everything okay?”

  “He wants to ask Charlene some questions.” My voice cracked like an egg, and I hurried into the flour-work room.

  The air conditioner hummed, ensuring the butter stayed at the right temperature for optimal dough. I shivered in my Pie or Die T-shirt.

  Charlene set a ball of dough on a metal rack. “That’s the last of ’em.” She turned to me. “What’s wrong?”

  I glanced at the slowly closing metal door. “I think Chief Shaw just accused me of being a serial killer.”

  She laughed. “Tell me another one.”

  The door clanged shut, and I started.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “He implied—” But that was too crazy. Had I heard right? I must have misunderstood. “I’m not sure what he was saying.”

  “Chief Shaw probably didn’t know either.”

  “And he wants to talk to you now.”

  “Oh, does he?” She untied her apron from around her purple knit tunic and flung it onto the long table in the center of the room. Flour poofed into the air.

  Charlene sailed past me and into the kitchen.

  “He’s in my office,” I called after her.

  “Huh!” She slammed out the kitchen’s swinging door.

  Abril stared, frozen. “He thinks you’re a serial killer?”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have said that until after the door had shut. “Well, I’m not.”

  “I know you’re not.”

  “I must have misunderstood. I mean, he was just trying to shake me.” But why? I was a witness, not a suspect. Just because I’d found . . .

  Hmm. I had stumbled across quite a few bodies in the last year.

  I had to call Gordon, and I fumbled in my apron pocket for my phone. But what if that was what Shaw wanted?

  What if he’d bugged our phones?

  What if I’d tipped over the butter-knife edge into paranoia?

  I hesitated, phone in hand.

  The phone vibrated, and I started.

  It was a text from my brother, Doran: ON MY WAY. DON’T PANIC.

  In spite of the day’s horror, my heart warmed. Doran was the half brother I hadn’t known I’d had until last summer. He’d moved here to try his hand at graphic design in nearby Silicon Valley. But how had he found out about the murder so quickly? Or that I’d been involved?

  It was a little weird.

  “What is it?” Abril asked, anxiety threading her voice. “Is something else wrong?”

  “No, it’s Doran. He’s coming to Pie Town.”

  She smiled. Abril and Doran had recently started dating. I hoped he didn’t screw it up. Good pie makers were hard to find.

  “Did you tell him about the murder?” I asked.

  “No.” She adjusted the net over her coal-black hair. “Why?”

  “Nothing, I guess.” Uneasy, I slid a pie into the oven’s rotating racks.

  Thirty minutes later, Charlene stormed into the kitchen. Her white ringlets trembled with indignation. “Shaw’s an idiot. He accused me, me, of being behind murders in San Nicholas going back to Prohibition. I wasn’t even alive then!”

  “If he’s focused on us,” I said, “he’s never going to figure out who really killed—was it Dr. Levant?”

  “It was,” she said heavily.

  Abril gasped. “She’s my little brother’s eye doctor.”

  “Shaw was none too happy when he realized he’d let that slip,” Charlene said. “And with your detective off the case, you know what this means.”

  I nodded, glum. The Baker Street Bakers really were back in business.

  Charlene and I had inherited an armchair detecting club. And since Charlene was involved, we spent less time in armchairs and more on actual footwork. But I thought we were getting pretty good at it. We’d helped solve several murder cases. Gordon was even pushing me to get a private investigator’s license and make it legal. But there was no way I could study for a license. I was too busy building the best pie shop on the NorCal coast.

  “Let’s get started.” Charlene bustled from the kitchen.

  “Wait, I can’t—” I said to the swinging door, and rubbed my arms. “Don’t worry,” I told Abril. “I’m not leaving you alone again today.” Especially since Petronella still hadn’t returned. I hoped she was okay.

  I hurried into the dining area. The Friday morning kaffeeklatsch had dragged the center tables together. The ladies sat gossiping, their aging faces beaming with good humor. My other elderly regulars lined the counter. An elfin, white-haired lady in a flowered gray dress sat alone in a corner booth nursing a cup of coffee. She adjusted her spectacles and squinted into the cup, her nose wrinkling.

  I hadn’t seen her in Pie Town before. Was she all right alone? I shook myself. Don’t assume senior citizens are charity cases. My piecrust specialist had disabused me of that notion quickly enough.

  From behind the counter, Charlene glowered at her archnemesis, Marla Van Helsing.

  Marla, dressed like a Dynasty villain in a red silk blouse and
black slacks, smiled. She turned up the collar of her black sequined jacket. “I hear you’ve found another body, Charlene.” The elderly platinum blonde curled her lips and waved a negligent hand. Diamonds flashed, glittering beneath the pendant lamps. “You’re like a rat to garbage when it comes to corpses.”

  Charlene glanced toward the front windows. “What are you doing out of your coffin, Marla? It’s past sunrise.”

  “Just checking out my so-called competition for the pumpkin race.”

  Uh-oh. I hadn’t known Charlene planned to enter the pumpkin race. This could be trouble.

  “So, it’s true?” Tally-Wally braced a long arm on the counter and rubbed his drink-reddened nose.

  “Yes,” Charlene said. “Marla is a vampire.”

  “I am not!”

  I squinted. In her red and black outfit, Marla did look like a sequined Countess Dracula.

  “I meant,” he said, “was Dr. Levant really killed?”

  “It looks that way,” I said. “Did you know her?”

  Tally-Wally pulled a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of his stained jacket. “She did my glasses.”

  “And my cataracts,” his best friend, Graham, said from beside him. Graham was as round as Tally-Wally was tall. He crumpled his checked cap in his fist. “Terrible. Must have been the spouse.”

  “Or the business partner,” Tally-Wally said. “I never liked that Cannon fellow.”

  “The killer could have been anyone who knew Dr. Levant,” Marla said. “She was not an easy woman.”

  “Don’t be catty,” Charlene said. “Just because she refused to get you those fancy, colored contact lenses—”

  Marla’s grip tightened on her mug. “I needed them for my show.” Marla ran a lifestyle channel on YouTube. It was a bone of contention, since all Charlene had was Twitter. Marla fluffed her hair and sighed. “But she said my eyes were too delicate.”

  “Too—”

  “Charlene,” I said warningly, and she subsided, grumbling.

  “I suppose your ridiculous detecting club will be snooping again,” Marla said.

  “We’ve solved plenty of cases,” Charlene snapped.

  Marla rolled her eyes. “Ah, yes. The Case of the Missing Moose Head? The Case of the Missing Surfboard?”

  “Murders too,” Charlene said. “And I’m going to win that pumpkin race.”

  “Doubtful. My entry is solar powered.”

  Charlene paled. “They’re supposed to be gravity powered.”

  “Not this year,” Marla said. “This is Silicon Valley, haven’t you heard? You did read the new rules, didn’t you? Oh, I forgot, you’re going blind as a bat in your old age.”

  Charlene’s nostrils flared. “Better blind as a bat than a vampire bat.”

  Petronella strode into the restaurant, her motorcycle boots loud on the checkerboard floor. “Sorry I took so long.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

  “My dad’s convinced San Adrian’s responsible for destroying his pumpkin,” Petronella said.

  Customers gasped. “No!”

  “Not his pumpkin!”

  “San Nicholas finally had a chance to win our own prize.” Graham’s bushy gray brows drew downward. “I knew it would come to this.”

  “I warned everyone,” Marla said. “San Nicholas has been resting on its laurels for too long. And now that we’ve stepped up our game, San Adrian is taking steps.”

  “What’d they do to the pumpkin?” Graham asked. “Poison?”

  “They dropped it on top of Dr. Levant,” Petronella said. “The fall cracked its shell.”

  Silence fell.

  “Well,” Tally-Wally said, “that’ll do the trick.”

  I cleared my throat. “Isn’t it more likely Dr. Levant was the intended victim, and the pumpkin an unintended casualty?”

  There was another long silence. Customers cocked their heads and considered.

  Marla blew on her coffee. “Really, Val, you don’t understand a thing about pumpkin festivals.”

  Chapter Four

  I walked to the front of the dining area and gazed through the glass at the foggy street.

  In the street, Ray handed a piece of comic art to a customer from his green booth. He caught my eye and waved.

  I waved back half-heartedly.

  In the optometry booth, Tristan Cannon stood motionless, arms limp at his sides. The poor man looked stunned. Had he been questioned by Shaw yet?

  My skin prickled, as if someone was watching me. I turned.

  The elderly, pixielike woman in the booth quickly looked away.

  Hmm. I’d introduce myself to her later. Right now, it looked like Dr. Cannon had the greater need.

  “Petronella,” I said, “do you mind—”

  “Go ahead,” she said from the counter.

  “What?” Charlene asked. “What’s going on?”

  “Tristan needs help.” I walked out the door and immediately regretted leaving my hoodie behind in the cold and damp.

  Charlene grabbed her jacket off the peg and followed, the bell above the door jingling.

  “The Baker Street Bakers are on the case.” Marla’s voice floated, sardonic, through the slowly closing door.

  “Marla’s solar-powered pumpkin will never work,” Charlene muttered. “They’ve always been gravity only. We just run them down a hill. It’s tradition.” She glanced at Ray, adjusting a drawing in his booth. Her eyes narrowed with cunning.

  “Thanks for coming along,” I said.

  “What? Oh, well, if someone’s going to save Tristan, it should be me. I know him better.”

  Heidi scowled at us from her stall.

  Ignoring the gym owner, we strode to the optometry stand.

  “Tristan, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Charlene reached across the narrow table to take his hands.

  He swayed slightly. His eyes were hazel, his gaze as misty as the coastal morning. “Thank you, Charlene,” he said in his light, Southern accent. He swallowed. “I don’t—This is so . . .” Beneath his white doctor’s coat, his broad shoulders folded inward. “What do you do in a situation like this?”

  “The best you can,” I said gently. “It’s all anyone can do. How can we help?”

  He rubbed his forehead, his pleasant, regular features crumpling in distress. “I’ve no idea. Kara and I were supposed to set up and work the booth today. Now . . .” He straightened. “I think I have to keep going. I don’t have any appointments at the office, and I’d just be . . .”

  “Sitting around thinking about what you’ve lost,” Charlene finished for him. “Better to work and get your mind off the murder. What time was Dr. Levant supposed to be here this morning?”

  Subtle. I shot her a look.

  “At five,” he said, “like me. I was surprised when she was late, but I assumed something had come up.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  He gnawed his bottom lip.

  “Did she have any enemies?” Charlene asked.

  “Enemies? No, of course . . .” Briefly, he shut his eyes. “Oh, damn. I should have told that policeman.”

  “Chief Shaw?” The muscles between my shoulders loosened. Someone had already interviewed Tristan. So, maybe-possibly—we weren’t interfering in Shaw’s investigation?

  “Shaw?” Tristan’s pale brow furrowed. “I think that’s what his name was.”

  “Tell him what?” Charlene asked.

  “We had to fire someone last week,” he said. “It got a little ugly.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Our receptionist, Alfreda. Alfreda Kuulik. But I can’t believe she would have done something like this. I don’t want to get her in trouble for nothing.”

  “Are you sure it’s nothing?” Charlene asked.

  “No,” he said. “I guess not. I have to report it. I should have told that policeman at once, but the news of Kara’s death . . .”

  “You must have been horribly shocked,” I sai
d. “No wonder you didn’t think of Alfreda right away. Why was she fired?”

  He shifted a stack of brochures on the table. “Ah, I probably shouldn’t say. Labor laws, liability, you know.”

  Phooey.

  “Anyone else have an ax to grind with your partner?” Charlene asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What about Kara’s husband?” I asked.

  His eyes widened. “Elon?”

  “Did they get along?” I folded my arms over my apron and suppressed a shiver.

  “They seemed to. He was very supportive. The poor fellow must be devastated.”

  Charlene’s eyes narrowed.

  “Have you got lunch today?” I asked. “Can I bring you anything? Coffee now? A turkey pot pie later?”

  “Thanks, Val,” he said, blinking rapidly, “but I couldn’t.”

  “Take the pie,” Charlene said. “She doesn’t make that offer lightly, and you know you love them.”

  “Then, thank you. I don’t have lunch organized. I assumed I’d be able to switch off with Kara and grab something.” The muscles jumped in his neck. “Kara . . .”

  “I’ve got you covered,” I said, teeth chattering. “If you think of anything else, let me know.”

  “Thank you.”

  Charlene and I hurried toward Pie Town.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I think he was somewhere on Main Street when Kara was killed,” I said, “and he was her business partner.”

  “And that makes him a suspect.”

  “Yes,” I said heavily. I liked Dr. Cannon. He’d always been friendly, and he provided free services to people who couldn’t pay.

  “I’ll be a minute. You go on.” Charlene beelined for Ray’s stall.

  Farther down the row of booths, a flash of orange caught my eye. As if my feet had a mind of their own, I found myself in front of an artist’s stall. Colorful paintings blazed in a modern, American-primitive style. Rolling hills and harvest moons and fields of pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkins.

  The artist, a woman with a kerchief over her hair, hooked a painting of hot-air balloons onto a metal rack.

  I leaned closer, admiring a farm scene with a black cat sitting on a pumpkin. My heart twinged with desire and regret. The painting was 500 dollars and out of this year’s budget. But wow.

  “I thought you were in a hurry to get back to Pie Town?” Charlene said in my ear, and I jumped.