Gourd to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  We skidded into the parking lot and stepped from the Jeep. Half a dozen cars filled the other spots. Fog hung low above us, twining through the tops of the cypress trees and veiling the roof of a black-painted barn lined with more pumpkins. The sign above its open doors proclaimed: TICKETS! SOUVENIRS! Charlene adjusted Frederick around her neck, and we strolled inside.

  I scanned the barn for Denise. Pumpkin festival T-shirts vied for space with orange candles and plastic skeletons. Fake spiderwebs dangled from the rafters.

  At the counter, a gray-haired woman in cat-eye glasses read a paperback thriller, her face pinched with concentration.

  “Afternoon, Gladys,” Charlene said. “Where’s Denise?”

  Gladys glanced up from her book and looked toward a door in the side of the barn. A MAZE ENTRANCE sign arched above it. “She’s in the center of the maze.”

  “What’s she doing there?” Charlene asked.

  “Checking people’s time,” the woman said in a duh tone. She pulled her fuzzy gray sweater tighter.

  “I see Denise isn’t above putting in some volunteer hours,” Charlene said.

  “Not when there’s free publicity to be had,” the ticket taker said dryly. “A reporter was in there with her earlier.”

  I zipped my Pie Town hoodie higher. “Makes sense. Denise is a sponsor.”

  “Are we going in or what?” Charlene asked.

  “We’ll take two tickets.” I pulled my wallet from the rear pocket of my jeans.

  Charlene raised a palm. “Hold on. I need my running shoes.” She hurried out the barn’s front door.

  The woman took my money, and we waited.

  Charlene returned, huffing.

  Gladys time-stamped the two tickets. “Better get going if you want to win.”

  “I’m on it!” Charlene grabbed a ticket off the counter and hustled through the maze entrance.

  “Thanks.” I took my ticket and receipt and jogged after Charlene.

  “Those are tax-deductible,” the woman called after me.

  I ran beneath the arch and entered a long corridor of fading cornstalks.

  Charlene’s red coat vanished around a bend.

  “Wait up.” I jogged after her.

  Charlene paused at a T-intersection. “Right or left?”

  “Right,” I said.

  Something mechanical buzzed in the distance.

  She glanced at her phone. “Left, it is.” Charlene turned and strode down the narrow passage.

  Then why had she bothered to ask? A better question was why had I bothered to answer? Shrugging, I followed.

  The corn reached high above our heads. It rustled eerily at our passage. I was glad we were doing this during the daytime, even if it was a weak, foggy daylight. At night, the creepy factor had to be off the charts.

  I nodded to Charlene’s red high-tops. “You didn’t change your shoes.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because you said . . .” Never mind. “I’ve been thinking about Elon. He’s the victim’s husband, but I know the least about him. I’d like to get Denise’s take on that relationship.”

  “He’s a good man,” Charlene said. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not a killer.”

  “Doesn’t it?” I asked.

  “People are flawed.” She checked her phone and turned right at an intersection. “Even the good ones.”

  “Marla had the right idea. We should bring him a pie. And are you checking a satellite map of the maze?”

  “Since when do we listen to Marla? You realize she wants to be a Baker Street Baker?”

  “I know.” The last time we’d “worked” with Marla on a case, she’d intentionally gotten us caught holding bags of garbage. But I couldn’t ignore how she’d been dogging our investigation now. Were her antics all a weird way of saying she wanted to join the team? Marla had gone through some rough times recently—emotionally and financially. Maybe she just wanted to be part of something? “I think we should let her help.” I stopped at another intersection and shifted on the dried corn leaves lining the path. They crackled beneath my feet.

  “Did that shelf land on your head?”

  “She has a different perspective on San Nicholas—”

  “A vampire’s perspective. She’ll blab any clues we uncover across cyberspace.”

  “If she’s an associate, we don’t have to tell her everything.”

  Frederick snuggled his head against Charlene’s neck.

  “No, to bringing in Marla,” Charlene said. “Did Gordon get those prints back from the lab?”

  I let her change the subject, but this discussion wasn’t over. Even if I didn’t bring it up, Marla would. “Prints?”

  “From the country store.”

  “The shelf was covered in prints. So far, the police haven’t been able to match them to any suspects.”

  She snorted and turned another corner. “How did Chief Shaw take it that Gordon brought in new evidence?”

  “I’m not sure.” I jammed my hands in my pockets. Gordon had been terse when he’d called this morning to let me know what he hadn’t found. “He said another police officer filed the report, and that someone from the SNPD might want to speak with me. So far, no one has, but it’s early.”

  “And Shaw’s an idiot.” She turned again. Something flashed in her hand, and she whipped it behind her back. “What if Tristan didn’t knock over that shelf?”

  I gnawed my bottom lip. “When I was walking to the store yesterday, I did think someone was following me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Did you tell Gordon?”

  “No. I mean, it was creepy and foggy, and I didn’t see anyone.”

  A faint hum, like a swarm of insects, tightened my shoulders.

  “What’s that sound?” I asked.

  “What sound?” She paused at another juncture and looked at her hand again.

  “That buzzing—”

  The sound faded.

  “Whoever followed you to the store may have overheard your conversation with Tristan,” she said.

  “I don’t even know if someone was following me. Why do you keep looking at your phone?”

  She slipped her phone into the pocket of her red coat. “No, I’m not.”

  “You are too! Are you cheating?”

  “A better question is, are you cheating, since you’re following me?”

  “Charlene—”

  “I’m checking Twitter.” Casually, she pulled out her phone and glanced at the screen.

  “You’ve got an overhead picture of the corn maze on your phone, don’t you?”

  She lifted her chin. “If you must know, I have a drone.”

  “A—” I looked up. The tip of something black emerged from the low fog. “So that’s what I’ve been hearing.”

  She scowled. “I’m going to have a word with Ray about the motor. It’s supposed to be a stealth drone.”

  Did I want to know why? No, I did not. “You blackmailed poor Ray into setting this up for you?”

  “It wasn’t blackmail. It was good, honest guilt, expertly applied. Ray lost me that pumpkin race.”

  Frederick raised his head and stared at me coldly, as if in agreement.

  “Charlene, how many times have I asked you not to terrify the customers?”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “That Brinks kid will never know what hit him.”

  “Charlene, you need to leave that kid alone.”

  “I will, if he leaves me and Frederick alone. And stops scuffing my fence! A fence doesn’t repaint itself, you know.”

  “Charlene—”

  She raised the phone to my eye level. “Look, I control the drone using my phone app. Come on, we’re almost at the center of the maze. What do you think the prize for best time is?”

  I pushed the phone away. “We can’t cheat. This is for charity.”

  “Huh. We’re wasting daylight.” She moved deeper into the maze.

  Why did I bother? I trudged after her.


  We made a left, another left, and a right. The rows of corn opened to a wide circle.

  Denise sat on a gilt throne at its center. “Welcome, to the center of the maze!”

  “Hi, Denise,” I said, sheepish.

  Something thumped in the distance, and I started. “What’s that?”

  “Oh,” Denise said, rising, “they must be testing the pumpkin cannon.” She tugged down the hem of her thick, quilted black jacket. The eyeglasses logo over her heart seemed to wink.

  Charlene thrust her ticket at Denise. “How’d we do?”

  “Wow.” Denise’s brows rose. “You made it in record time.” She stamped the ticket. “Have you walked the maze before?”

  “No, but I’ve got an excellent sense of direction.” Charlene tapped her nose.

  Denise held out her hand. “Here, Val, I’ll stamp your ticket.”

  “It’s okay.” I shuffled my feet. “I don’t need a prize. It’s all for charity.”

  “Thanks,” Denise said. “That’s thoughtful of you.”

  A breeze rustled the cornstalks and tossed strands of Denise’s mid-length, brown hair.

  “How are you doing?” I asked quietly. It was too easy to remember what it had been like when my mother had died. But at least I’d been able to say good-bye. Denise and Elon hadn’t had that chance with Kara.

  Unless one of them had killed her.

  Denise stared at her black hiking boots. “Oh. You mean my cousin.” She raised her head. “I want to find whoever did it and make them pay. I guess I’m in the anger stage of grief. Kara and I might not have always seen eye to eye, but we were like sisters, you know?”

  “Are the police any closer to finding her killer?” Charlene asked.

  “They haven’t shared anything with me,” she said tartly, rising from the gilt throne. “I’ve half a mind to hire you two.”

  I started. “Us? You mean, the Baker Street Bakers?”

  “Is that crazy?” she asked.

  The pumpkin cannon whumped.

  “Well—” I began.

  “It’s not crazy,” Charlene said. “We’ve solved lots of cases. We’d be happy to take on yours.”

  “I guess I should ask how much you charge,” Denise said.

  “We don’t,” Charlene said. “If we charged, we’d need private investigator licenses.”

  I wasn’t sure that was how the law worked. “We need to be careful not to interfere in the police investigation. But we’ll help any way we can.” And this opening was too good to miss, since we were nosing about already. “What can you tell us?”

  Her eyes flashed. “I can tell you that Laurelynn should be the prime suspect. She and my cousin hated each other.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Elon said their rivalry was trivial, a joke.”

  “Is that what he told you?” Denise paced in front of the throne. “Elon sees the best in everyone.”

  “Did he see the best in Kara?” Charlene asked.

  “Well, of course—they were married.”

  “We heard Kara could be rough on people,” Charlene said. “They say she lorded it over Tristan Cannon that he was a mere optometrist.”

  “I don’t know who they are, but that’s no reason to commit murder.” Her hands clenched and unclenched. “And it isn’t true. My cousin was always supportive. When I started my company, she even helped me with the funding. I gave her a percent of the partnership as payment. You know how iffy Silicon Valley start-ups can be. Kara believed in me, or she wouldn’t have helped.”

  “But she wasn’t supportive with Laurelynn?” I asked.

  “That was different. And why would she have to be supportive? She didn’t owe Laurelynn anything.”

  “Tell us more about Elon,” I said.

  She crossed her arms, her cheeks pinking. “Those two were a wonderful couple. If the police are looking at Elon, they’re barking up the wrong tree. He adored her. Honestly, he’s—” She snapped her mouth shut and shook her head. “I know everyone suspects the husband in situations like this. But I want the real killer caught. It’s not Elon.”

  “Where were you the morning your cousin was killed?” I asked.

  “You want my alibi?” Denise arched a brow. “I asked you to work for me.”

  “It’s only so we can determine if you might have any evidence or insight into the murder,” I said quickly.

  She pursed her lips. “I was home, alone.”

  Charlene and I asked her more questions, but we didn’t learn anything useful.

  We exited the maze, and I checked my phone. At least Charlene’s cheating meant I’d return to Pie Town at a reasonable hour.

  Charlene hurried inside the barn. Five minutes later, she returned, scowling.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “All I got was this stupid badge.” She pulled an orange button from her pocket. It read, LOVE CORN MAZES.

  “At least you have the satisfaction of knowing you beat the maze. Oh, wait. You don’t, because you cheated.”

  She opened the Jeep’s rear door. Using her phone’s controls, she maneuvered the drone until it rested inside.

  I stared at the drone. It had a jack-o’-lantern on top. “And you said I was getting a jump start on Halloween.”

  “Keep it up, and you’ll have to find your own ride to Pie Town.”

  I mimed zipping my lips and tried not to smile.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Charlene and I strode through Pie Town’s front door. Its bell jingled a welcome. The neon smiley face logo above the order window beamed at our return. Locals and tourists filled the tables and ate savory pies.

  Charlene patted her badge. “I beat the maze.”

  Frederick’s tail coiled around her neck.

  “All on your own?” Marla swiveled on her counter stool. “Wasn’t Val with you?”

  “I plead the Fifth.” I pushed through the Dutch door beside the register. “Petronella, what did I miss?”

  The cell phone in my assistant manager’s pink apron pocket buzzed. “Nothing.” She pulled out her phone and frowned at the number. “Can you take the register? I’d like to get this.”

  “Sure.” Whipping a spare apron from beneath the register, I looped it over my head.

  Petronella pressed the phone to her ear. She strode into the kitchen, her motorcycle boots clomping on the black-and-white floor.

  Charlene grabbed a clean coffee mug and poured coffee from the urn. “Something wrong with Petronella?” She eyed the swinging kitchen door.

  “She’s worried about her dad.” I’d been clinging to the fragile hope Petros Scala wasn’t a serious suspect. But a queasy feeling in my stomach told me not to trust Shaw.

  Charlene blew on her coffee. She turned toward the corner booth, where the gamers rattled dice across the table.

  Ray slouched lower in his seat, his ears reddening.

  Charlene pointed at the student engineer. “A word, if you don’t mind.”

  Leaving Ray to fend for himself, I surveyed my empire. Shiny pink tables and booths. The scent of baking pies. Cheerful chatter and the clink of silverware. On the sidewalk outside, two women stopped to admire the Halloween village in the windows. The counter seats were filled....

  I frowned.

  Tally-Wally and Graham were still here, and my blood chilled.

  Those two only stayed late if something was up, or they thought something interesting might happen. Neither boded well.

  They spoke in low voices with a local farmer, Dell Martins. Dell’s weather-beaten skin seemed to crackle with age. The wind had blown his white hair sideways.

  I ambled along the counter. “Hi, guys. How’s it going?”

  They jerked apart.

  Graham’s eyes widened with innocence. “So, you beat the corn maze.” He fiddled with his cabbie’s hat, lying on the counter in front of him.

  “In a manner of speaking.” I slid my hands into my apron pockets. “What are you two still doing here?”
/>   Tally-Wally rubbed his drink-reddened nose. “Is there a law against it?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m thrilled to have your company and your business.” Even if the latter consisted mainly of cheap coffee and half-price, day-old hand pies. “I was only curious.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” the farmer snapped.

  “Now, Dell,” Graham said. “Val’s a friend, even if she is nosy.”

  “I’m not—” Okay, I was nosy.

  The bell over the door tinkled, and I looked up.

  Mrs. Thistleblossom stumped into the dining area, her black galoshes squeaking on the linoleum. She stopped dead in the center of the checkerboard floor and glared like the fairy who’d crashed Sleeping Beauty’s party.

  Silence rippled outward from where she stood. Even the dice at the gamers’ corner table seemed muffled.

  Tally-Wally’s shoulders hunched to his ears. “You’ve got bigger problems now.”

  I walked to the register and forced a smile. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Thistleblossom.”

  The old woman shrugged beneath her lumpy charcoal coat. Slowly, she lifted her cane. She banged it on the floor once. Twice. Thrice.

  An inexplicable shiver raced up my spine. What the heck was this about?

  Turning on her heels with a loud, rubbery squeak, she strode from the restaurant. The door drifted shut behind her.

  Had that been a threat? A curse? Not that I believed in any of that stuff, but it wasn’t nice to think someone wished me ill.

  “Well,” Marla drawled, “you don’t see that every day.”

  “She’s, um, old,” I said loudly for the sake of my unnerved customers.

  The senior citizens at the counter swiveled to glare.

  My cheeks flamed. She’s old? Half the people in Pie Town fell into that category.

  Charlene strolled to the counter. “When I get to be Thistleblossom’s age, I’ll probably be cracked too.”

  “When you get to be her age?” Marla arched a platinum brow.

  Charlene scowled. “What’s that—?”

  “More coffee?” I asked, before the ribbing could go nuclear.

  “You never offer us coffee.” Tally-Wally thrust a mug in my direction.

  Petronella hurried from the kitchen, her normally pale face a shade whiter. “Val, I’ve got to leave.”

  “Is something wrong?” I asked, worried.