Gourd to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

Takako sat in a booth and tapped at a laptop, a half-eaten slice of harvest pie and cup of coffee at her elbow. My new Halloween village glowed on the sill. Outside, fog pressed against the windows and darkened the sidewalk to a stygian gray.

  A steady flow of pumpkin-obsessed tourists had blown through San Nicholas and Pie Town today. Much to Charlene and Marla’s annoyance, I’d been too busy doing actual baking to do any Baker Street Bakering.

  “Of course,” Marla said from her perch at the far end of the counter, “I told poor Elon if he needed anything, he should call. He said he was fine, but it was clear by the state of his house he wasn’t.”

  Charlene leaned forward at the counter’s opposite end. “In other words, you got nothing.”

  Marla sniffed. “Kara would never have put up with such a mess.”

  “And how do you know what Kara and Elon’s house looked like when she was alive?” Charlene asked.

  “I can imagine.”

  “Oh,” Charlene said, “imagining! There’s a solid investigative technique.”

  I did some imagining of my own—a Tahitian beach, Paris, Afghanistan . . . pretty much anywhere but stuck listening to these two.

  “Val, what do you think?” Charlene asked.

  I thought I hadn’t been sleeping well, imagining sounds from the graveyard behind my tiny house. But there hadn’t been any more vandalism at my home or at Pie Town, so the drama really was all in my sleepy head. “I think—”

  Petronella stuck her head through the swinging door to the kitchen. “Val, you got a minute?”

  Relieved, I handed another customer a tent card. “Sorry, Charlene. Duty calls.” I jammed the ticket in the wheel and turned to my assistant manager. “What’s up?”

  Her pale face flushed. “We’re um, out of coffee.”

  I blinked. Out of coffee? How did that happen?

  “It’s my fault,” she said. “I just didn’t think we’d have this much dining-in business today. The urn’s low, and we’re just . . . out.”

  And she’d been understandably distracted by her father, who was still in Chief Shaw’s crosshairs. I untied my apron. “I’ll run to the store if you can take over here. That’ll get us to closing, and then I can make a run to the Big Store.” The Big Store was the massive wholesaler on the Peninsula where we got napkins, coffee, and other basics.

  She emerged from the kitchen and nodded. “Deal. And sorry again.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I didn’t expect so much traffic either.” And I could use the fresh air.

  “Where are you going?” Charlene called.

  “Out.”

  “You can’t leave me alone with Marla,” Charlene said.

  “Eat pie and make up!” I bustled into my office and slipped into my orange-and-black hoodie. Patting my jeans back pocket to verify my wallet was in it, I left, striding through the crowded dining area.

  Takako raised her head and looked as if she wanted to say something.

  Pretending I didn’t see, I hurried onto the sidewalk.

  Cold mist dampened my face as I strode past iron lampposts and hanging flower baskets.

  I started to cross the street.

  Tires whispered on the pavement, and I stepped backward.

  An SUV whipped past.

  Unnerved, I peered into the fog for more hazards, eyes and ears straining.

  A prickle of warmth spread across my upper back.

  I looked over my shoulder. The sidewalk vanished into the fog. A gust of wind stirred my hair, twisted the mist into a spiral. It wafted, phantomlike, down the street.

  I shivered and jammed my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. Hurrying across the street, I bustled inside the warmth of the country store, a three-story adobe-colored building.

  The door closed behind me. Safety. My muscles unbunched. Not that I had anything to be safe from.

  I wound through the narrow aisles toward the coffee section. Tall shelves loomed above me, and I pulled my arms closer, feeling claustrophobic.

  A familiar, Southern drawl drifted from the other side of the peanut butter shelf. “. . . need to close out. . . .” Tristan Cannon’s voice dropped, and I strained to hear. “. . . out of the producers—”

  Pulse speeding, I leaned closer to the shelf. Who said I couldn’t combine work with snooping?

  “Okay,” Dr. Cannon muttered, “I’ll see you—Wait. You’re where?”

  A woman with a cart pushed past. “Excuse me.”

  “Sorry,” I said automatically, giving myself away.

  “Let’s not talk on the phone,” Cannon said.

  Wincing, I rounded the aisle.

  “Val!” Tristan Cannon pulled the phone away from his sandy-blond head. An earbud dangled from one ear. “Nice to see you again,” he drawled.

  “Hi, Tristan. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  His pleasant features contorted into a grimace. He pocketed the phone in his long, wool coat. It looked good on his tall form. “I’m glad for the interruption, truth to tell. The last few days have been a nightmare.”

  “I can imagine. How are things at the office?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know how I’ll keep things running. Alfreda’s agreed to return temporarily, but we need an opthalmologist.”

  If he’d brought Alfreda Kuulik back, then she mustn’t have done anything too terrible. So who had been the driving force behind her termination? Tristan or Kara? “The town likes and respects you. They’ll understand if things are topsy-turvy at first.”

  He laughed shortly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.”

  I hesitated. “I did hear Kara could be a little critical.”

  “Who’d you hear—?” He shook his head. “I suppose it’s no secret. She had strong opinions about the way things should be, and she was the kind of woman who spoke her mind. It could rub people the wrong way. But I prefer to look at that quality as one of her strengths.”

  That put me in my place, and my cheeks warmed. “I’m glad you’re keeping the office going. It can be a long drive over the hill to the bigger cities.”

  “I’m going to do my best. I like living and working here. Thank God for our insurance policy—right now it’s the only thing keeping us in business. That, and my other investments . . .” His brows drew together, then he shot me a summer-lightning smile. “Kara said I was wasting my time, but I’m sure glad I did now. What are you doing here?”

  “Coffee. Things have been crazy at Pie Town, and we’re low.” And I needed to buy my java and get back. “I’d really like to talk to you more later, if it’s okay.”

  “About what?”

  “About Kara.”

  His mouth opened, closed. “Sure,” he finally said. “I don’t have my calendar on me, but give me a call, and we’ll set something up.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  He walked past me, toward the front of the grocery store, and I continued to the coffee section. The store was out of the brand we normally used, and I pondered the dozens of alternatives. We wouldn’t be using it long, but I didn’t want to get something super expensive that everyone loved. I might get stuck with it as the regular brew.

  The dilemmas of a pie shop owner are myriad.

  A shiver rippled the skin at the back of my neck, and I glanced over my shoulder.

  The aisle was empty.

  Giving myself a shake, I grabbed a canister. I was overthinking the coffee issue, probably because I didn’t want to think about other things. When Takako had tried to catch my attention earlier, I’d run like an undercooked egg. She wasn’t exactly smothering me by doing her work in Pie Town. So, why did it feel that way? All the time I’d spent wishing for connection, and now someone was offering—

  Metal groaned. Boxes of tea cascaded from shelves.

  I stared, uncomprehending.

  The shelf tilted, leaning at an impossible angle. Its base skidded sideways and it arced downward.

  Chapter Fifteen

&n
bsp; Coffee cans spiraled past in slow motion. Shielding my head, I shrieked and dropped to the floor. A crash reverberated, shaking my bones. Boxes and canisters pelted my shoulders and thudded to the linoleum.

  Silence fell.

  Shaken, I looked up. Above me, the metal shelf canted against the shelving opposite, forming a triangular metal tunnel. I was safe and unhurt. I released a ragged breath. I sat on the floor. Caught my breath.

  The metal groaned.

  Freshly motivated, I scrambled over the detritus and toward freedom.

  Hands grasped my arms and pulled me from beneath the shelves. Coffee tins rolled, fanning from the scene of the disaster. They ricocheted against heels and toes and shopping cart wheels.

  “Are you okay?” A young, sandy-haired checker clasped my arm and frowned.

  “Yes.” I nodded, breathing hard, and struggled to remember his name. “Yes, Tom. You’re Tom,” I said stupidly.

  “And you’re bleeding.” Tom pointed to my head, then jammed his hands in the pockets of his green apron and flushed.

  A half-dozen customers gaped at me and the tilting shelf. Tristan Cannon wasn’t in the crowd. He couldn’t have gone far, so he must have heard the crash. My pulse quickened. Was he really that uninterested? Or had he pushed the shelf over himself?

  “Val?” Tom asked.

  “What?”

  He pointed to my forehead.

  “Oh.” I touched a spot in front of my ear, and my fingertips came away bloody. “It’s just a scratch. I wasn’t hurt.” I willed my heartbeat to slow.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” He led me to a stool beside an open door to a storage area. “I’ll get the first-aid kit.” The checker hurried off.

  I drew my phone from the pocket of my hoodie, called Gordon.

  “Val.” His voice was a soothing rumble. “What are you wearing? No, wait, let me guess—”

  “There was an incident at the country store. One of the shelves tipped over on me. I’m not sure it was an accident.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked sharply.

  “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just—”

  “I’ll be right there.” He hung up.

  Tom reappeared with a first-aid kit in hand. He pawed through the plastic box. “Okay, let’s see. Alcohol wipes. Here.” He handed me a small, square alcohol wipe.

  I tore open the packet. The wipe inside was bone-dry, but I dabbed at the spot above my ear anyway.

  Tom handed me a squeeze bottle of antiseptic. I applied that to the wipe and then to my skin. By the time actual bandages emerged from the box, Gordon was striding down the aisle, his emerald eyes blazing.

  “Val. What happened?”

  I motioned toward the fallen shelf with one hand, the wipe pressed to my cut with the other. It wouldn’t stop bleeding.

  “It fell over,” Tom said.

  “Those don’t just fall,” Gordon snarled. He blew out his breath. In a calmer voice, he asked, “Have you got video?”

  Tom winced. “Only at the registers. But I’m not supposed to know that.”

  Gordon bent to me. “Let me take a look.” Gently, he pried the wipe from my head. “It doesn’t look bad. It’s only bleeding a lot because it’s a head wound.”

  “I’ll . . .” Tom pointed with his thumb over one shoulder. “I should call the manager.” He trotted away.

  “I’ll get the shelves fingerprinted,” Gordon said in a low voice and ripped open a bandage. “But the odds are low we’ll get anything useful. The whole town’s been through this store.”

  “Then you think—?” My voice squeaked. “You think someone pushed it over?” Someone like Tristan?

  He taped the bandage to my head, his touch unbearably gentle.

  I grasped his wrist, and he stilled.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I said.

  “I’ll always come when you call.”

  Our gazes locked, and I knew it was true. He didn’t say words like that lightly. And I couldn’t imagine not being there for him. I leaned closer.

  Tom peered around the corner of the aisle. “Should I phone the police?”

  “Yes,” Gordon said, the spell broken, and the checker vanished again.

  Gordon cleared his throat. “Short of a major earthquake or human intervention, I don’t know what would make one of those tip. Did you notice anyone suspicious?”

  “I was talking to Tristan Cannon before it happened.”

  He angled his head toward the fallen racks. “Was he underneath that too?”

  “No. He left earlier, not long before it fell.”

  His jaw tightened. “Did you see him leave the store?”

  I shook my head and winced.

  “I’ll talk to him.” His voice brooked no argument, and that just made me want to argue. I opened my mouth to speak.

  “Did you learn anything interesting from Cannon?” he continued.

  I raised a brow. “Thanks for assuming I slipped an interrogation into that conversation.”

  “Assuming? I expect it.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “I didn’t learn much. He only confirmed that Kara could be tough on people.”

  “Was she tough on him?”

  “He said no. I’m not sure I believed him.”

  “Did he seem resentful?”

  “No.” I rubbed one finger along the edge of my bandage. “He seemed worried.”

  “Unusually so?”

  “No,” I admitted. “His business partner was murdered. His practice is in jeopardy, and he’s a suspect. If I were in Tristan’s shoes, I’d be terrified.”

  “If he knows something, he needs to come forward.”

  “Do you think he’s holding back?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.” I nudged a fallen canister with my toe. “And I think I nearly got killed because of it. Either Tristan did this, or someone else did, thinking we were together.”

  He encircled me in his muscular arms. “I’ll take you home,” he said into my hair.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got to get back to Pie Town.” Regretfully, I pulled away. “I only came here for coffee.”

  He scooped a random canister off the floor. “Here you go.”

  That was one way to make a decision.

  Gordon followed me to the cash register. He paid for the coffee and walked me to Pie Town’s glass front door. “I’m returning to the store.” He pressed his lips to mine, sending my heart into a delicious spiral. “I want to make sure no one touches that shelf before it gets printed.”

  “Will you let me know if you find anything?”

  He smiled. “Probably not.”

  I laughed. “Fine. Be that way. And thanks for the coffee.”

  * * *

  I boxed a pumpkin pie and handed it to a gray-haired customer. “Happy Almost Halloween!”

  “Thank you.” The woman strode to the glass door. Watery Thursday-morning sunlight drifted through Pie Town’s front windows.

  Charlene set down her cell phone and swiveled her barstool to face me. “You’re too early for Halloween. Are you sure you didn’t get a concussion from one of those cans yesterday?”

  “It’s almost Halloween,” I said, unfazed. Sales had stayed high—people buying pies for Halloween parties and stopping by for a bite of pumpkin nostalgia. My stepmother was off on a day trip to Monterey. Most importantly, no one else had died. Win-win-win.

  “Should have called me,” she grumped. “We’re partners. I could have protected you.”

  “It was an eavesdropping of opportunity.” Thank God she hadn’t been there. If she’d been hurt . . . An icicle pierced my core.

  “Well, since you’re not concussed, get a move on. We’re going to be late meeting Denise.” Charlene flipped up the collar of her red knit coat.

  Draped around her shoulders, Frederick flicked his ears. A matching white hat and mittens lay on the counter in front of Charlene. She’d moved past Halloween and moved straight on to Christmas.

  “W
e agreed to tackle Denise later this afternoon.” I glanced at the tables, filled by locals stopping by for pot pies and quiches and coffee.

  “That’s a no-go. If we wait until after school gets out,” Charlene said, “the corn maze will be packed with screaming teens.”

  “You can go, Val.” Petronella strode through the swinging door from the kitchen. “Abril and I have got this.”

  “See?” Charlene said. “Your assistant manager has got this, and I have it on good authority Denise is at the maze now.”

  “But—” I snapped shut my mouth. If Petronella said she could manage, she could manage, even if Pie Town was packed to the gills. Besides, I wouldn’t be gone long. “Okay. Thanks, Petronella.”

  The bell over the front door jingled. My brother, Doran, strolled into the dining area.

  I smiled. “Hey, you.”

  He nodded. His blue eyes, brilliant against his dark skin, crinkled. “Hey, Val. Is Abril here?”

  Doran might not find me as fascinating as his girlfriend, but they seemed to be back on track—if they’d ever been off. “She’s in the kitchen, and don’t forget your hairnet.”

  He made a face and strode past me into the kitchen.

  “Ah,” Charlene said, “young love. He can’t bear a moment away from Abril. It’s like you and Pie Town.”

  “We like it when Val’s chained to the counter.” Tally-Wally swiveled on his barstool to face Charlene. “It means more pie.”

  “Yeah, don’t rock the boat.” Graham tugged at the suspenders holding up his khaki pants.

  “I’ll get my jacket.” I collected my winter hoodie, a scarf, mittens, and hat from my office and returned to the dining area.

  “Now are you ready?” Charlene asked.

  “Ready as instant soup.”

  We zipped down the One in Charlene’s yellow Jeep. Charlene wrenched the wheel, and we lurched onto a dirt road lined with pumpkins. Signs urged us forward: CORN MAZE! PUMPKIN CANNON! SOUVENIRS!

  “I’m not sure how I feel about this pumpkin cannon,” I said, bumping in my seat as Charlene raced down the road. “It seems like a waste of pumpkins.”

  She swerved around a dirt pothole, and I clutched the grab bar.

  “Flying pumpkins are good fun,” she said. “Besides, San Nicholas produces more pumpkins every year than we can sell.”