“You’re right,” I said. “I got distracted.”
She rested one hand casually on her hip. “Well, you’d better get undistracted. You’re in Thistleblossom’s crosshairs now.”
“What?”
“She was in Pie Town. Didn’t you notice?”
“Wait. That woman in the corner booth?”
Charlene’s expression darkened. “You know how she’s made it over a hundred, don’t you?”
“Clean living?”
“Because the devil can’t die.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, exasperated. Charlene’s favorite explanations always veered toward the supernatural.
“It means she’s one hundred percent mean.” Charlene waggled her fingers. “She scares the whole town.”
“Oh, come on. That newspaper article said she was beloved.”
“Only because the editor’s terrified of the woman. Why do you think she was sitting alone? Anyone old enough to really know her avoids her.”
My hands fell to my sides. What a lonely existence. “That’s terrible.”
We turned toward Pie Town.
“That’s self-preservation,” Charlene said. “She wins that pie contest every year because she’s got the judges running scared. But now you’re a judge, and she hasn’t got anything on you. She’s in Pie Town looking for weaknesses to exploit.”
I shook my head.
She tugged down the cuff of her purple jacket. “Not every grumpy old person has a heart of gold, you know.”
“It’s a pie-making contest,” I said. “The winner gets a ribbon and a mention in the local paper. It’s for fun.”
“I hate to say it,” Charlene said, opening Pie Town’s glass door, “but Marla was right. You don’t understand pumpkin festivals. They’re cutthroat.” She rubbed her neck.
Mrs. Thistleblossom still sat alone in the corner booth.
I smiled at Charlene, smoothed the front of my apron, and approached her. “Mrs. Thistleblossom?”
She started. “Oh!” she said in a quavery voice. “Yes?”
“Hi, I’m Val Harris.” I extended my hand.
She looked like I’d offered her arsenic.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” I said, stuffing my hand back into my apron pocket. “I’ve heard your pumpkin pie is the one to beat. I’m looking forward to tasting it.”
She grimaced, exposing yellowed teeth. “Why, thank you, my dear. You have such a lovely pie shop.” Her voice deepened. “It would be a shame if something happened to it.”
“Hap—” I blinked. “What would happen to it?”
“Nothing, nothing. This terrible news got me thinking—you’ve heard about Dr. Levant’s murder?” Her face contorted. “A murder that shall not go unavenged.”
“Y-yes. Did you know Dr. Levant?”
“She was my eye doctor. And it’s no mystery why you’re asking. We all know about your little detecting society. You should tread carefully, young Val.”
Little detecting society? When she said it, it just sounded creepy.
“Now to business.” She folded her gloved hands atop a patent leather purse. “I’d like to order one of your pumpkin pies, the one with the little maple leaves and pumpkins on the top crust?”
“You don’t need to order it. I’d be happy to give you one.”
Cries of outrage drifted from the counter.
“Because you’re a contest entrant,” I clarified. Maybe Charlene was getting to me, but I didn’t want to be accused of taking bribes disguised as pie purchases. I’d had to reveal my connection to Gordon to the judges as a potential conflict of interest. They’d assured me since he was a law-abiding cop, they trusted he wouldn’t give me any tip-offs about which pie was his. And he hadn’t.
“Did I say one?” Her spectacles glittered. “I meant, I’d like one hundred.”
“Oh,” I said, taken aback.
“Attempted bribery!” Charlene howled. “Everyone saw it.”
But all my customers’ backs were mysteriously turned away, their shoulders hunched.
Mrs. Thistleblossom’s eyes narrowed behind their spectacles. She deliberately tapped her handbag. “If you’re turning down my generous offer, I will be very disappointed.”
My piecrust maker stepped closer to the booth. “Get used to the feeling, you old—”
“Charlene!” I turned to the diminutive woman. “Would you like another cup of coffee?”
“Why, yes.” Mrs. Thistleblossom extended the cup.
“Then you’ll have to get it yourself,” Charlene said, “because we’re self-serve.”
I took the cup. “But I’m happy to get a cup for a fellow baker.” I stalked to the coffee urn and filled the mug.
“Excellent,” Mrs. Thistleblossom purred. “That will give you time to reconsider my offer.”
Marla shifted on her barstool. “That was your second mistake,” she murmured into her mug.
“What was the first?” I asked, then thought better of it. “Never mind.” Do not engage.
I brought Mrs. Thistleblossom her cup. “I’m afraid I can’t sell you the pies before the contest. But I can give you the number of another bakery that delivers.”
“How disappointing.” She smiled coldly. Her lenses glinted, two flat and shining disks.
An odd chill rippled through me. In that moment, there was something uncanny about the old lady. Then the moment passed, and she was just a little old lady in a print dress.
I’d been spending too much time with Charlene. Now I was starting to see the supernatural everywhere.
The bell over the front door jingled.
I backed from the table. “It was great meeting you, Mrs.—”
“Val!” a feminine voice screeched.
Someone tackled me, and I tumbled sideways.
Chapter Five
I gasped, the breath squeezed from my lungs. Clutching the back of a pink booth, I struggled to stay upright.
“Cut it out.” My brother, Doran, pried a tiny Asian woman from around my waist.
The woman gripped my shoulders and beamed up at me. “Val! It’s me.”
Confused, I tried to place her. She wore professional dress. Brown wool slacks. Tan sweater. Matching blazer. Plaid scarf.
Nope, I had no idea who she was.
I wheezed. “Ah . . .”
My brother scraped the shock of blue-black hair out of his eyes. “Val, this is, um, my mom, Mrs. Harris.” He stared meaningfully at me. “You know, I told you she was coming?”
“But you can call me Takako,” she said.
Doran folded his arms over his black motorcycle jacket. He shot his mother an exasperated look.
“Your mom?” I gaped, blindsided. He hadn’t told me she was coming to visit.
“And your stepmom.” She wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. I told myself I wouldn’t get emotional.”
I remembered my manners. “It’s nice to finally meet you Mrs.—uh, Takako.” Why hadn’t he told me she was coming?
She sniffed. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“You do?” I really hoped she didn’t.
“But I am not here to try and take your mother’s place or make things weird. I just needed to . . . meet you.” She pressed both hands into a prayer position and touched them to her mouth. “You look so much like your father.”
Doran and I groaned. Our father was good-looking, but he was also just one step ahead of the law. This wasn’t a compliment.
“Ah, family,” Mrs. Thistleblossom muttered. “So important. So painful to lose.”
Okay that was . . . Was she trying to spook me?
“Ignore the old grouch.” Charlene elbowed her way into our little group. “So, you’re the wicked stepmother, eh?”
The smile Takako returned looked forced. “I suppose I am. I would have come sooner, but Doran was keeping Val a secret.”
“Sorry,” Charlene said gruffly. “Bad joke.” She studied Takako and her son. Doran was
taller and slimmer than Takako, but there was no mistaking the resemblance. “I’m Charlene.”
They shook hands.
“Please, sit down.” I ushered them to a booth on the opposite side of the restaurant from Mrs. Thistleblossom. The old lady was starting to give me the heebie-jeebies. “Can I get you some coffee? Pie?”
“I’ll take a refill.” Charlene extended her mug to me.
“Coffee,” Takako said. “Black.”
“I’ll be right back.” I hustled to the counter.
Tally-Wally whistled. “A long-lost brother, and now a long-lost mother.”
“Stepmother,” I said.
Doran appeared at my side. “Sorry about this, Val. I tried, but I couldn’t stop her.”
“You didn’t have to stop her.” Movements jerky, I filled a mug from the urn. “But why didn’t you give me a heads-up? I could have prepared something for her or arranged time off. I’ve got Mondays free, but the pumpkin festival officially starts tomorrow, and—”
“Come on. You don’t do time off. And you don’t have to do anything special for her. The pumpkin festival can be her entertainment.”
“Oh,” I said, relieved. “So, she’s only here for the weekend?”
His blue-eyed gaze slipped sideways. “I’m not sure. She’s staying at that luxury hotel down the road.”
Marla’s lips curved. “No one leaves that hotel willingly. Or until they run out of money, which doesn’t take long. I’ve heard the standard rooms are over five hundred dollars a night. What does your mother do?”
“She’s made good investments,” Doran said.
I grabbed the coffees and thrust one into Doran’s hand. “Here.”
We returned to the table.
“Val’s going to be a judge,” Charlene was saying, “since professionals can’t participate in the pumpkin pie bake-off.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” Takako said. “I’m sure Val’s pumpkin pie would be the best.”
My skin prickled, and I looked over my shoulder.
Mrs. Thistleblossom’s face wrinkled in a scowl. She made a strange, quick gesture.
My grip tightened on the mug. Slowly, I lowered it to the table.
“Thanks, Val.” Takako took the mug and patted her flat stomach. “I plan to eat as much of your pie as possible tomorrow at the festival.”
I joined them in the booth. We chatted about things to do around San Nicholas, and when the mugs were empty, Takako stood. “And now I should let you get back to work.”
I hugged her briefly. “Thanks for coming. It really is great to meet you.”
“We’re family.” Her smile had a firm set to it. “Of course, I came.”
But were we really family? Doran was. And she was his mother. I wasn’t sure how these things worked. Maybe the details didn’t matter? Uneasily, I backed toward the cash register. “Okay, well, see you tomorrow.”
I fled to the kitchen. The ovens were off. The counters were clean. Hunter, our teenage busser/dishwasher, was loading plates into the dishwasher. Everything was under control. Now how was I supposed to take my mind off today’s dose of crazy?
Petronella leaned against a metal countertop and grinned. “So, you’ve got a stepmother.”
“Don’t you start.” I tightened the apron around my waist. “And she seemed nice.”
“They all seem nice,” my assistant manager said, “until they’re not.”
Abril’s dark brow furrowed. “Where’s Doran?”
I smothered a grimace. Why hadn’t the dummy stopped by the kitchen? “I think he took his mother back to her hotel.”
Her face fell. “Oh.”
“It sounds like her visit was a surprise,” I said. “He looked a little frazzled.”
“That makes sense,” Abril said uncertainly. She slid a pie from the oven onto a wide, wooden panel and set it on a metal rack.
“And it’s too soon for you to meet his mother.” Petronella grinned and as quickly sobered.
“How’s your dad doing?” I asked.
“He’s not happy.” Petronella rubbed the top of her hairnet. “Small farming’s tough, and so is Dad. He’ll get through it. But I don’t trust Chief Shaw.”
I opened my mouth to assure her, but I didn’t feel particularly assured myself. “Your father wasn’t responsible for what happened. His pumpkin didn’t roll off the truck and crush someone.” There was no way any of the pumpkins could have. They were all flat at the bottom, their shapes deformed by their enormous weight. “It was deliberately moved.”
“Does Shaw understand that?” she asked.
“Maybe . . .” Not. I pointed over my shoulder to the swinging door. “Would you two mind if I did a little office work?”
“I don’t think things are going to pick up today,” Petronella said.
I didn’t either. Prefestival day had been slow for a Friday. I hoped it wasn’t a bad omen about the real festival, this weekend.
“We’ve got this,” Petronella said.
I hesitated. But if things did get busy, I’d only be in my office. “Thanks.” I hurried to my barren office. Sitting in the creaky executive chair, I Web surfed.
Dr. Levant’s optometry office had a Facebook page. But there was nothing personal or murderous there. It was all vision tips and community events. The pumpkin festival featured prominently.
Next, I checked social media pages for Dr. Levant and Dr. Cannon. Tristan Cannon’s page wasn’t illuminating either, though he was thinking of adopting a puppy. I paused over the puppy pictures, then forced myself to move on. My tiny house did not have enough room for a dog.
Dr. Levant’s husband, Elon, wasn’t on social media at all. But their ex-employee, Alfreda Kuulik, was. After she’d been fired, she’d left a string of nasty grams on Twitter about Dr. Levant. Oh yeah, she was a suspect.
I expanded my Web search. Since becoming a Baker Street Baker, I’d become more savvy about online investigations. There’s a Web site that searches the deep Web for court records and all sorts of stuff. But it too was a bust.
I leaned back in my chair and rested my heels on the metal desk. The chair creaked, zipping backward and thunking against the wall.
Scowling and rubbing the back of my head, I dug my cell phone from my apron pocket with one hand. I called the head judge for the bake-off.
“Hi, Denise,” I said, “this is Val Harris.”
“Oh, hi! What’s going on? You’re not backing out of the judging, are you?”
“No, no. I just wanted to report a contact with one of the entrants, Heidi Gladstone. She mentioned she was entering a . . .” Oh, shoot. If I gave her the details, would it make it impossible for Denise to judge the pie too? “She mentioned a detail about her pie which would make it recognizable.”
She snorted. “I can guess her big reveal. Don’t worry. It’s not as if a low-calorie pie had much chance of winning, is it?”
“You never know,” I said, taken aback by her casual attitude. “But maybe I shouldn’t judge that pie.”
“If you’re able to identify the pie, judge it, and put a mark on your card so I’ll know. And thanks for letting me know. You wouldn’t believe how much agony goes into this contest.”
“What do you mean? Do you need help with something?” I smacked my forehead and hoped she said no. I didn’t have time for extra volunteer work.
Denise hesitated. “I don’t suppose you’ve met Mrs. Thistleblossom?” she said in a low voice.
“Actually, she came into Pie Town today.” I laughed uncertainly. “I think she might have tried to bribe me. She offered to buy a hundred pies.”
There was a long silence.
“I told her I couldn’t accept any purchases from her until after the contest.” I studied my tennis shoes. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Yes . . . yes, that’s fine.” Her gulp was audible. “Has she, er, said anything else?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason,” Denise said quickly. “I’m su
re nothing will happen.”
I cocked my head toward the office door. Outside, the murmur of voices rose. “Nothing will—?”
“Gotta go. Bye!” She hung up.
I stared at the phone. Weird.
Pocketing my phone, I strode into the dining area and stopped short.
Marla stood on a chair, her platinum hair skimming a pendant lamp. The sequins on her black jacket glittered. A cluster of elderly regulars gathered around her.
“Revenge!” Graham shook his fist. “It’s time we take ’em out.”
“Yeah!” The gray-haired crowd roared.
I sidled to Charlene. “What’s going on?”
“Ray caught a spy from San Adrian taking pictures of the festival decorations.” She angled her head toward the window. Across the street, a man on a ladder pinned a giant black spiderweb to a building cornice. “On top of the murder and the wrecked pumpkin, catching a spy has tipped them over the edge.”
“They sabotaged our best pumpkin,” someone shouted.
“Guys,” I said, “a woman was killed. It’s not likely someone from San Adrian murdered Dr. Levant to ruin our festival.”
“I don’t disagree,” Graham said. “But they took advantage of the murder by dropping that pumpkin on her and now stealing ideas from our festival while the cops are busy collecting evidence.”
Marla’s chair rocked beneath her, and she hastily stepped onto the floor. “That pumpkin was an insult to Dr. Levant and everyone in this town who cared about her.”
I tried again. “But we don’t know—”
“War is hell.” Tally-Wally rubbed his reddened nose. “So, I don’t say this lightly, but it’s payback time.”
“What about a zombie apocalypse prank?” a woman who worked as the church organist suggested. “We could dress as zombies and scare people at their festival.”
“That would make their festival more interesting,” Marla said. “If you really want to unnerve people . . .” She looked around, making sure everyone was listening. “A creepy clown.”
The crowd muttered, shifting.
“A clown?” Graham asked. “Isn’t that a bridge too far?”
Marla raised her chin. “It’s better than they deserve.”
Gourd to Death Page 4