Gourd to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  The pizza arrived. We sat at his coffee table noshing pepperoni pizza, drinking Zinfandel, and discussing the murder board. I reveled in the coziness. Gordon was sharing his life and his investigation. We were a team, and the thought sent a twinge of guilt through me. Charlene and I were a team too. I’d need to report what I’d learned.

  We finished the pizza and put the plates in the dishwasher. I yawned.

  “Early night?” He lightly stroked my forearm. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Yeah, and I want to check on Charlene.” It had been a long day. Though mentally Charlene might be seventysomething going on thirteen, physically, she was seventy-plus. Besides, we had a case to discuss.

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’s Charlene.” I stood on my toes and kissed him.

  Gordon walked me to my pink van. He leaned through my open window, and his emerald eyes glinted. “Do me a favor?”

  “Depends on the favor.”

  “Never tail a suspect in this van.”

  I laughed. “Deal.” Though Charlene’s yellow Jeep wasn’t any less conspicuous.

  Slowly, I drove from his condo. The night was thick with fog, and my hands clenched on the wheel. I sat forward, my chest straining against the seat belt, as if the extra inches would improve my vision. If a car was stopped ahead of me, I wouldn’t see it until I was on top of it.

  A spot between my shoulder blades prickled. I shook myself. There was no way anyone could follow me in this pea soup. I was only nervous driving in such thick fog.

  Gritting my teeth, I pulled onto the One. Cars would be moving more quickly here, in spite of the low visibility. I edged up to the speed limit, so I didn’t get rear-ended.

  A semi flashed past on the left, its wake buffeting the van.

  I continued on, muscles tight.

  Finally, I turned east onto a surface street and drove farther inland, into Charlene’s neighborhood. The fog lightened here, and I relaxed against my seat.

  I pulled to a stop in front of her picket fence. Pumpkins on curling green vines glimmered with moisture in the glow of a nearby street lamp.

  I stepped from the van.

  Somewhere in the darkness, a car’s motor cut.

  I looked up and down the street. Lights from nearby homes cut rectangles in the mist.

  No one stalked menacingly up the street. No one loomed from behind the nearby juniper bush. No one lay in wait behind the nearby Lexus.

  I am not being followed.

  But I hustled up the stone path to Charlene’s front porch. Lights streamed from the front windows, illuminating the hanging ferns. I knocked, scuffing my knuckles on the white, wood door.

  After a moment, Takako answered the knock.

  “Val!” She dragged me inside and clutched me in a python hug.

  “Takako,” I said, breathless. I pried myself free and bumped into a doily-covered end table.

  “What are you doing here?” Takako asked.

  “Val’s checking to see if I died,” Charlene grumped from her new leather couch. “She’s convinced I’m at death’s door and occasionally comes ’round to check if I’m decomposing.”

  Right. And that had nothing to do with the heart attack Charlene had faked last month.

  Takako’s face wrinkled. “I’m sure Val doesn’t think that at all.”

  “She shouldn’t.” Charlene lifted a glass from the couch’s cupholder and took a long slurp. “Val’s the one headed for heart failure. And stop letting all the warm air out,” Charlene said. “I’m not paying to heat the entire street.”

  Frederick raised his head from the back of the brown leather couch and growled.

  Hastily, I shut the front door. “That’s not why I came by. I thought you might want to watch some Stargate.”

  “What’s Stargate?” Takako asked.

  Charlene gaped. “What’s Stargate? What’s Stargate? Only one of the longest-running science-fiction TV shows of the twentieth century. Wormholes! Sexy aliens! Speaking of which, didn’t you have a date with that detective of yours, Val?”

  “Gordon’s not an alien.”

  “I know that,” she said. “What happened?”

  “My date turned out not be a date after all.” I glanced at the curtained front window.

  “I know what’ll make you feel better,” Charlene said. “How about a glass of my special root beer?”

  “I’m driving.” And her “special” root beer was loaded with Kahlúa.

  “Why do you keep looking out the window?” Charlene asked.

  “Rampant paranoia.” I dropped the curtain. “On the way here, I imagined someone was following me.”

  Charlene lurched from the couch. “Is he outside?”

  “I don’t know.” I shifted my weight. “Like I said, I was probably imagining it.”

  “Do you usually imagine things?” Takako asked.

  “Well, no.” Usually my bad feelings paid off.

  It’s a gift.

  Charlene reached behind a couch cushion and pulled out her shotgun.

  “Whoa!” I ducked, heart thumping, and raised my hands in a defensive gesture. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  Charlene strode to the window and pulled back a faded curtain. “I can’t see anything in all this fog.”

  A light snicked off, plunging the living room into darkness.

  “It’s all right,” Takako whispered, coming to stand beside us. “That was me.”

  “Good thinking,” Charlene said. “Now, whoever’s out there won’t be able to see in.”

  I turned to my stepmother. “Takak-Oh!” I yelped.

  My stepmother had raised a curved blade near my throat. The size and shape of a T. rex’s claw, its metal glinted in the faint streetlight struggling past the curtains.

  Takako scanned the front garden through narrowed eyes.

  I edged the claw away with one finger. “Is that thing legal?”

  “No,” she said. “But if I ever need to use it, I’ll worry about legal later.”

  Charlene nodded approvingly. “Easier to carry than a shotgun.”

  “Is that a Mossberg?” Takako nodded toward the gun.

  “Yep.” Charlene racked a shell, and the gun made an ominous clacking sound. “The 500 Tactical.”

  “I hear those are good for home defense,” Takako said, “though I prefer the Benelli M4.”

  “The Italians know firearms,” Charlene agreed, “but isn’t the Benelli heavy?”

  “I don’t plan on hiking with it.”

  The two women laughed.

  I wiped damp palms on my jeans. Holy guacamole, Charlene and Takako were bonding.

  “All right,” Charlene said. “Takako, you’re with me.”

  “With you where?” I bleated.

  “We’ll go around the back of the house and see if we surprise anyone,” Charlene explained.

  “Wait,” I said. “No—”

  “Val,” Charlene said, “you stay here. Turn the light back on and keep ’em focused on you. If anything happens, guard Frederick.”

  “Guard—”

  The two women scuttled into the kitchen, leaving the door swinging behind them. I heard another door open and softly shut.

  Swearing, I flipped on the living room light. I stepped toward the front door and banged my thigh into another low table. “Ow!”

  From the couch, Frederick meowed a warning.

  “Thanks for nothing.”

  I cursed some more and paced in front of the window. I didn’t think Charlene would actually shoot anyone. Would she?

  After an eternity, footsteps sounded on the front porch, and I jerked open the door. Charlene and Takako trooped into the living room. Their hair glittered with droplets of fog.

  “No one,” Charlene said.

  “I told you I’d imagined it.”

  “But we did hear a car driving off,” Takako said.

  “It was probably Thistleblossom,” Charlene said.

  “Who’s
Thistleblossom?” My stepmother tucked her curved knife somewhere inside the folds of her Pie or Die hoodie. Takako was loyal to extended family; I’d give her that.

  Charlene dropped onto her new couch. “The old bat who wins the pumpkin pie contest every year. She tried to intimidate Val earlier.”

  Takako’s nostrils flared. “Did she now?”

  “It’s no big thing,” I said. “It’s a blind taste test, so I don’t know how she could influence the judging anyway.”

  Takako’s mouth puckered. “There are all sorts of ways. You’d be surprised what I’ve seen.”

  “What have you seen?” Charlene cocked her head.

  “The world of academia can be cutthroat. Reviews that have been tampered with, bribery, blackmail. If there’s a way to cheat, people will find it.”

  “You are preaching to the choir,” Charlene said. “Anyway, Takako and I have agreed we’ll follow you home.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said. “The fog is terrible.”

  Charlene growled. “You think I don’t know how to drive in fog?”

  I wasn’t sure she knew how to drive in daylight. “No, that’s not—”

  “Great, then I can see where you live.” Takako reached for a parka hanging from a wall peg. “Let’s go.”

  The two women followed my van to my tiny home on the bluff.

  Beside the picnic table, Takako stepped from Charlene’s yellow Jeep. She looked around, frowning. “Where is it?”

  “It’s the tiny house.” I motioned toward the converted shipping container. “Do you want to come inside?”

  “Maybe it’s best Val gets her rest,” Charlene said. “She’s got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Oh,” I said, relieved. “Right. Pie judging.”

  Takako hugged me. “Then a rain check? I’d love to see your, er, home later.”

  “Definitely. Rain check.” I glanced at the eucalyptus trees bordering the property, sloping down to the hidden cemetery. Were Gordon and Charlene pranking me or not?

  I backed away and my thigh bumped the picnic table. Grimacing, I rubbed the spot on my jeans—the same place I’d knocked against Charlene’s end tables. My recent clumsiness had to be a message from my subconscious. Unfortunately, I’d no idea how to interpret it.

  They waited until I was inside my house before driving off.

  I listened to the Jeep grumble down the hill, its engine fading to silence. Then I lay in bed and listened to other night sounds—the patter of paws across my metal roof, the scrape of a branch.

  I fell asleep. Crumbling tombstones and drifting white figures haunted my dreams.

  Chapter Nine

  Repressing a shiver, I burrowed deeper into my Pie Town hoodie. The pumpkin pie contest had taken over the stage at the south end of Main Street, near our white adobe firehouse. Pumpkins and pedestrians thronged Main Street. Awnings and food trucks drifted in and out of my vision, obscured by the drifting mist. Though it was nearly noon, the fog refused to lift, and I hunched lower in the metal chair. I didn’t trust Charlene and Takako’s new friendship. What was my piecrust maker up to?

  A breeze spattered my face with droplets of moisture. The orange tablecloth fluttered on the long table. I slapped my palm onto the scorecard before it could fly away.

  We’d been asked to judge the pies on ten criteria, ranging from the aroma to whether the crust was properly flaky. I studied the scorecard. I baked pies for a living, and even I wasn’t this picky.

  People crowded a table to the side of the stage for free samples. Entering this contest required some serious baking—a dozen pies per entrant. That way, the audience could participate in the tasting. The audience didn’t get to vote, but the lure of free pumpkin pie was a huge draw.

  Heidi strode up the steps and stopped in front of my seat. “So. You’re still judging.” The gym owner’s mouth flattened.

  I folded my arms. “Why wouldn’t I . . . ? Hold on. You told me about your crust to get me disqualified?” Sheesh, this bake-off was cutthroat.

  “It isn’t fair that you’re judging me, given our relationship.”

  “I’m not judging you—I told the head judge about our contact.”

  She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her green Heidi’s Health and Fitness jacket. “And?”

  “And you should talk to Denise if you’ve got a problem with me,” I said, weaseling out.

  “I don’t see much point to that, do you?”

  “Why not?”

  The head judge, Denise Tatari, cleared her throat.

  Heidi shot me a final glare and hopped off the stage, her ponytail bobbing. I really hated having a nemesis. On the flip side, that made me Heidi’s nemesis, and being a nemesis carried a heady, seductive power. I could almost understand Charlene’s attraction to her ongoing battle with Marla.

  Denise was a middle-aged woman in businesslike black slacks and knit top. Her black jacket sported an eyeglasses logo. Tasteful highlights streaked her mid-length brown hair. She tapped the microphone. “Welcome—”

  The microphone screeched, and we all cringed.

  Denise fiddled with the controls and blew on the mic. “Welcome to the San Nicholas Annual Pumpkin Pie Bake-off.” Her voice, echoing down the street, carried a marked lack of enthusiasm. But in fairness, she’d just lost her cousin beneath a giant pumpkin.

  “To keep things simple,” she continued, “we asked our entrants to bake classic pumpkin pies. But as I’m sure you noticed in your own tasting, there can be a lot of variation between even the classics.”

  Murmurs and cheerful laughter erupted from the crowd.

  I scanned the rows of chairs. Charlene hadn’t shown yet, and the pumpkin races should have finished by now. I hoped she and her pumpkin robot had placed.

  Denise explained how the pies would be ranked, and she handed the microphone to Graham.

  He waddled to the center of the stage and adjusted the cabbie’s hat over his balding head. “Before we get started, let’s introduce our judges!”

  He moved to stand slightly beside Denise, who’d taken her seat at the end of the long table. “You’ve already met our head judge, Denise Tatari. Denise is the founder of a local ophthalmology software company. She’s also our most exciting San Nicholas resident. I saw those Facebook photos.” He waggled his plump finger at the judge. “Bungee jumping in Fiji? At your age?”

  She smiled.

  Graham strolled down the length of the table, introducing judges, until he got to me. “Val Harris is the owner of Pie Town, right here on Main Street. So, if you haven’t gotten your fill of pie yet, be sure to stop by. But what many people don’t know about Val is, she’s also a member of the highly secretive Baker Street Bakers. The Bakers are an amateur sleuthing society responsible for solving several local crimes.”

  From the base of the stage, where the other amateur bakers sat, Gordon grinned.

  I flushed. It was fine for our friends to know, but the Baker Street Bakers wasn’t something I’d wanted to advertise to the world.

  Mrs. Thistleblossom scowled and made an odd gesture toward me, as if casting a curse. Her gaze bored into mine.

  I shivered again and not from the cold. Curses? Where had that idea come from? Maybe I was spending too much time with Charlene.

  Takako waved from the front row, and I waggled my fingers in her direction.

  “Let’s give all the judges a big round of applause,” Graham finished. He set the mic in front of Denise. It thunked loudly on the table, and she hastily turned it off.

  In front of each of us were two pies cut into slender slices. Numbers had been taped to the bottom of each tin.

  I tasted the first pie. The bottom crust was a little mushy, but the flavor was intense. I scored the pie and passed it to my fellow judge, then tried the next pie in front of me.

  It was crustless—Heidi’s no doubt. The flavor was milder than I liked, but it wasn’t bad. I wasn’t sure how to judge the crust though, since there wasn’t any. I ended u
p leaving that square blank, made a notation for Denise, and passed the pie to the next judge.

  Two more pies were set in front of me. Slowly, we worked our way through the judging. My favorite was pie number six. It had obviously had some sort of whiskey added to the mix. I savored the pie on my tongue and closed my eyes. Was it a cinnamon whiskey? The pie had a kick, but not so much as to overwhelm the pumpkin flavor, and the crust was perfection. Even Charlene would have approved. I checked the watch on my phone. Where was she?

  I did a double take.

  Takako had left the crowd.

  I shifted in my folding chair. Maybe she’d gotten bored and gone to check out the food trucks. Watching people judge pie can’t be very exciting unless you’re a contestant.

  Graham, carrying two round, plastic bakery boxes, approached Denise. He bent to mutter something in her ear.

  Denise’s expression hardened, her lips forming a taut line. She gave her head a small shake.

  I watched, perplexed. What was going on?

  The two held a whispered discussion. Graham handed her a pumpkin pie in a round, plastic bakery box, and a second, empty box.

  Denise rose and walked to my end of the table. She removed one of the pies from in front of me. It had scored high as well, hitting all the “classic” pumpkin pie notes.

  “Excuse me.” Denise returned to her seat.

  She took a bite of the pie she’d taken from me, then sampled a bite of the pie from the bakery box and grimaced. Denise tapped the bemused-looking judge beside her. They held another whispered conference, and she gave him both pies. He tasted them and shook his head, then passed the pies to the judge beside him.

  Joy, the owner of a comic book store and a fellow judge, nudged my arm. Her ponytail of blue-black hair cascaded down the back of her brown coat. “What’s going on?” In her monotone voice, she flattened the question into a demand.

  “No idea,” I whispered. “But the pie in the plastic box looks professional.” I glanced at the audience. Takako had returned to her seat, a grim look on her face.

  The judge beside Joy handed her both pies. “There’s strong evidence this pie was bought commercially.” He pointed to pie number three. “Someone bought this pie as a comparison.” He held up the pie in the plastic box. “It looks and tastes identical to me.”