Gourd to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  Climbing the concrete steps, Charlene and I strolled inside, jingling the bell over the door.

  Chloe Chang looked up from a computer tablet and adjusted her glasses. Strands of silver threaded her mid-length, blue-black hair. “Can I help you?”

  I set the pink boxes on the counter. “These are for you.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Does Pie Town deliver now? But I didn’t place an order for pie.”

  “We’ve got extras,” I said. “I thought I’d give them away to fellow shop owners. Caramel-apple for you and a pumpkin chiffon for, er, Smokey.”

  “You remembered my favorite order! Thanks.”

  “Is Smokey around?” Charlene asked.

  Chloe shook her head, her jade earrings bouncing against her slender neck. “He’s in his workshop, recovering from the festival. He said if he made one more pumpkin, he’d blow his gourd.” She grinned. “I doubt he’s tired of pumpkin pie though. I’ll be sure to give it to him.”

  “I see the glass pumpkins are on sale,” I said.

  “Only the Halloween-colored ones.” Chloe pointed to an orange, black, and white pumpkin. “Why, are you interested?”

  “I don’t have much room in my tiny house,” I said.

  “That house is plenty big.” Charlene tossed her white curls.

  “I hear Alfreda Kuulik is taking advantage of the sale to build her paperweight collection,” I said.

  “Alfreda’s not a bad glass artist herself.” Chloe pushed up the glasses on her nose. “She’s taken classes with Smokey.”

  “Did she get that bat paperweight she had her eye on?” I asked. “I really liked that one. The bats looked like they were emerging from smoke.”

  “Yes, that one was on sale.”

  “Did she buy it on Thursday?” Charlene asked.

  “Um.” Chloe’s forehead wrinkled. “Yes, I guess she did buy it two days ago. Why?”

  “She must have just beat me to it,” I said quickly. We had to be discreet. If Shaw learned we were asking questions, he might follow through on his threats. “I’d hoped to pick that one up as a gift. A friend of mine’s goth. She loves bats.”

  “You didn’t stand a chance.” Chloe laughed sympathetically. “Alfreda’s a true collector. She was waiting on the step when I opened the store Thursday morning. We only had two left. She got one, and a tourist bought the other.”

  I nodded. “I think that might have been Ta—my, er, stepmother, Takako.”

  Charlene nodded. “Have the police—”

  “Enjoy the pie!” I half dragged Charlene from the shop.

  “I was going to ask Chloe if the police had questioned her about Alfreda,” Charlene huffed, taking a swipe at the sleeve of her knit jacket.

  “Yeah, I got that. But I don’t think we should ask her what the police are up to. Chief Shaw has already got a grudge against us. He might say we’re interfering in an investigation. Let’s tell Gordon what we’ve learned and move on.”

  “Tell me what?” he asked from behind me.

  I turned, my heart fluttering in my chest. “Gordon.”

  He brushed a wisp of hair off my face.

  I eyed him. A spot of what looked like strawberry jam dotted his chin. He was obviously off duty in jeans and a navy sweater, and that wasn’t good. Had Shaw put him on leave?

  “Let me guess,” he said. “You couldn’t resist the siren song of a glass pumpkin sale?”

  “We’re questioning a witness.” Charlene sniffed. “As a diver, you of all people should know there are no sirens in this area.”

  His emerald eyes twinkled. “I wasn’t speaking literally.”

  “This isn’t Australia, you know,” she said. “That place has got a real siren infestation.”

  “That’s surprising,” he said amiably, “what with all the great white sharks Down Under.”

  “We’ve got ’em here too.” She folded her arms. “But it’s not the sharks scaring off the sirens.”

  “Alfreda bought one of the bat paperweights,” I said, before Charlene could explain what eldritch horror from the deep was keeping mermaids at bay.

  “Nice detecting,” he said. “When?”

  I rubbed the red splotch off his chin with my thumb. “Thursday morning.”

  Gordon whistled. “That doesn’t look good.”

  “Strawberry?” I held up my thumb.

  He flushed. “I may have picked up a mini strawberry rhubarb earlier.”

  It seemed a little early in the morning for him to be eating pie. “And you didn’t stop in the kitchen to see me?”

  “You looked busy,” he said.

  Hmm. I changed the subject. “Takako told me Tristan’s body was still warm when they found him. That would imply he died not too long before they came across him on Thursday afternoon. Plus, it’s a dog park. How long could he have been lying there before someone discovered his body? Alfreda wouldn’t have carried a paperweight around all day, would she? They’re heavy, and she doesn’t live that far away. She’s also unemployed. Why not go home and drop it off?”

  “Maybe she didn’t get a chance,” he said. “Or maybe it’s not her paperweight. That glass shop has been selling bat paperweights all week. And the police haven’t searched Alfreda’s house to check out her collection.”

  “Will they?” Charlene asked sharply.

  He shook his head. “I’m not on the case.”

  She laughed. “Sure. And neither are we.”

  “Are you busy tonight, Val?” he asked.

  Charlene edged a discreet distance away and pretended to study the headlines in a newspaper kiosk.

  “No,” I said. “Why?”

  “Can I pick you up after work?”

  “Let me check my calendar.” I studied the unyielding fog. “Yes. I’m free.” I grinned. “You know when I close.”

  He drew me in for another kiss, this one longer and more insistent. “I’ll see you then,” he murmured into my ear, and I shivered.

  I watched him climb the steps to the glassblower’s shop and go inside.

  The kiosk’s door clanged shut.

  Charlene tucked a paper beneath her arm. “Doesn’t he trust our intel?”

  “A good detective verifies.”

  “Hmph.” She didn’t look at me. “I deduce there will be no Stargate tonight.”

  My stomach pinched. “Oh, sorry. I forgot.” Charlene and I usually watched DVDs on Saturday nights. “I’ll tell him we’ll have to get together another time.” I moved toward the concrete steps.

  She made a disgusted noise. “Who am I to stand in the way of young love? Go on your date.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She glared at me. “Do I sound unsure? I was going to have to cancel tonight anyway. Ewan and I have plans. He called last night. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  “Say hi for me,” I said, my guilt easing. Ewan was her on-again, off-again romantic interest and the owner of a local faux-ghost town. He rented it out for events. “How’s he doing?”

  “The Bar X hosted a wedding today. Business is booming.” She nudged my side and cackled. “Get it? Booming. Boomtown.”

  We returned to Pie Town, and Charlene abandoned me for whatever it was she did on Saturday afternoons. I baked and sold pie. Lots and lots of pies.

  I surveyed the crowded dining area from behind the register, and warmth flowed through my veins. Nine months ago, Pie Town had been struggling. We’d come a long way.

  Petronella swept past the register and deposited a tray of pies at a table of four. My assistant manager returned and set the empty tray behind the counter. “Have you and Charlene figured anything out about you-know-what? My mom is freaked out Dad might get called in for questioning again.”

  “He can’t be a suspect any longer. He was in the police station when Tristan was killed.”

  “I didn’t say her freak-out was rational. But . . .” She gnawed her bottom lip.

  “But what?”

  “Shaw asked me where I was Th
ursday afternoon.”

  “Why would—?” Oh, no. I dragged my palms down the front of my pink apron. Did Shaw think Petros might have an accomplice, like his daughter? “And where were you?”

  “I was with my mom, but Shaw didn’t seem to think that was a very good answer.”

  “It was the truth,” I said stoutly.

  “It doesn’t matter. When my dad heard about it, he went nuts. I just want this to be over.”

  “Gordon isn’t going to let your dad get railroaded. Or you, Petronella.”

  “Gordon’s not in charge.” She jammed her fists in her apron pockets. “I hate feeling so helpless. You and Charlene usually meet up Saturday nights, right? Why don’t I come over? We can hash things out.”

  “Charlene’s got a date with Ewan tonight.”

  Petronella frowned. “But he’s in Florida.”

  “Florida?” I fumbled my ticket pad. It fluttered to the checkerboard floor.

  “Yeah, his daughter and I are friends. He went to Florida to visit relatives, and she’s home managing the ghost town.”

  I bent to pick up the pad. “Huh.” Had Charlene spaced? Or had she lied? I wasn’t sure which worried me more. “Well, I’ve got a date with your cousin. I’m sure he’ll have some ideas.”

  There was a crash from the kitchen, and we flinched.

  “Hunter,” Petronella muttered. “I’ll go help him with whatever he broke this time.” She strode through the swinging door.

  If only fixing what had gone wrong in San Nicholas was that easy.

  * * *

  Gordon picked me up at seven in what I’d come to think of as his cop sedan. The gray car wasn’t flashy, but it had serious horsepower.

  I buckled my seat belt and smoothed my hands over the thighs of my jeans. I wasn’t dressed for anything fancy. Where was he taking me? The British Pub? The White Lady? Their bars were casual. My brow wrinkled. Had Charlene gone on her own to the White Lady? It was her favorite watering hole.

  “I thought we’d grab Chinese,” he said. “There’s a new place at the minimall.”

  “Oh.” The minimall? I swallowed my disappointment. “Chinese food sounds great.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I wanted to cook, but the chief called me in on Brinks patrol.”

  Not the kid who’d been tormenting Charlene? “Brinks—?”

  “Is a menace to society.” His hands throttled the wheel. “Mrs. Malloy caught him stealing her washing—”

  “Why?”

  “I never found out. I ended up chasing him through three blocks of backyards and finally lost him in the creek. If there’s any justice in the universe—and there isn’t—he’ll get poison oak.”

  I winced. “I thought you were off duty today?”

  “I’m never off duty.” He leaned closer, a faint light gleaming in the depths of his emerald eyes. “The other bad news is the Chinese restaurant is takeout only. Mind if we eat at my place?”

  Hmm . . . His place had definite possibilities.

  We picked up a Peking Combo Dinner, and he drove me to his modern condo. Gordon opened the boxes on the kitchen’s gray, granite counter and handed me a plate.

  “How are your parents?” I asked. Gordon had moved back to San Nicholas to be closer to them as they dealt with age-related illnesses.

  “My father is still denying he has diabetes, and my mother is playing along. So, the same.”

  “That can’t be easy.” I hadn’t met his parents yet. We were taking things slowly on a lot of levels.

  “It is what it is,” he said, shutting down that line of conversation. “So, what have you and Charlene learned?” He nodded to his murder board, where he’d taped the photograph I’d taken of Tristan Cannon’s body. Gordon had blown it up into eight-by-ten segments. The body. The paperweight. Tristan’s hands, curled and vulnerable.

  I shuddered. “Not much.”

  Plate in hand, his tall figure wandered past to stare at the whiteboard. “Chloe sold half a dozen of those bat paperweights this week, but she didn’t keep records of whom she sold them to.”

  Gamely, I smothered my disappointment. So, this wasn’t a date, it was an investigation. On the bright side, at least Gordon trusted me enough to talk over the murder. “Did you ask Chloe about any of the suspects, specifically? It’s a small town. She might remember if any came in.”

  He shook his head. “I asked, and none had, aside from Alfreda.”

  “Are the police going to search Alfreda’s house?”

  He paced, his footsteps silent on the stone floor. “I don’t know. I’ve told one of the officers on the case she bought a paperweight. He’ll relay the info to Shaw.”

  “Do you know Shaw asked Petronella where she was Thursday afternoon?”

  “Petronella? Why . . . ?” His expression darkened, and he cursed. “He thinks she killed Cannon to cover for her father.”

  “It’s ridiculous. That theory can’t go anywhere.”

  “Especially since she was working at Pie Town.”

  I winced. “Actually, she was at home, with her mother.”

  “Why wasn’t she at work?”

  “Her mother was in a panic. Petros was being questioned by Shaw, and Petronella went home to be with her.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “The timing couldn’t have been worse.”

  “Speaking of timing, do you know when exactly Tristan died?”

  “He’d been dead roughly an hour,” he said, “so he was killed around three in the afternoon. And I’m only telling you that because you’d already guessed.”

  “Deduced.”

  “Sorry, deduced. You’re not a half-bad detective, you know.”

  It was a backhanded compliment, but I wasn’t complaining. Much. “As I see it, if the police search Alfreda’s house and find the paperweight, Alfreda’s in the clear. And if they search her house, and it’s not there, is that it? She did it, and Petronella and her dad are off the hook?”

  He gripped the top of the whiteboard. “Only if we can prove it was her paperweight that killed Cannon.”

  “Hmph.”

  “You don’t sound satisfied.”

  “I don’t know. If she did hit him with her paperweight and leave it at the scene, then it looks like a spontaneous attack. But that doesn’t track. We’re assuming Tristan knew too much or was somehow involved. That speaks to premeditation.”

  “Which brings us to Kara Levant’s murder, which does have the feel of spontaneity.”

  “I can’t see a killer planning to leave her beneath a giant pumpkin.” But her murder didn’t exactly feel spur-of-the-moment either. “Her body was moved from the jail. Do you know how she was killed?”

  His mouth flattened into a line. “I can’t say.”

  I dropped the spring roll to my plate on the coffee table. “Seriously?” Didn’t he trust me?

  “I’ll get wine,” he said hastily and strode into the open kitchen.

  Annoyed, I walked to the murder board. Can’t tell me? After everything?

  I gazed at the photos. Charlene would love seeing this, and I wondered again what she was up to tonight. Because I had the feeling she had more than drinks planned. She was up to something, and she didn’t want me around.

  I studied an official-looking photo of a pitchfork with some sort of tag on the handle. The murder weapon? This was farm country. Even the non-farmers tended to have old pitchforks and scythes in their garages. This pitchfork could have come from anywhere, including the barn behind the old jail.

  Gordon returned with a bottle of cabernet and a hopeful expression.

  I pointed to the pitchfork. “Murder weapon?”

  The wine bottle dropped loosely to his side. “No comment.”

  “Shaw seemed to think it was a wrench that killed her.”

  “Do we have to play this game?”

  “Yes,” I said. “So, Shaw was wrong, and it was a pitchfork.”

  “He wasn’t wrong, and it was a pitchfork. Shaw took all sorts
of potential evidence from the crime scene. That’s the way it works.”

  “Hmm. There was a key in the forklift when the body was found. Was it left there for the killer, or did the killer find it somewhere else?”

  “I can’t get into details.”

  “Come on.” I stiffened. “I gave you those photos of Tristan’s murder scene.”

  “For which I thank you,” he said.

  “You can thank me by telling me Kara’s time of death.”

  “You’re a Baker Street Baker. You must have narrowed it down by now.”

  “When you invited me out tonight, I thought it was for more than using me as your confidential informant.”

  He quirked a brow. “Well, we could always—”

  “Fughhedaboutit.” I jerked my chin toward the murder board, and smiled, wry. “I guess we’re officially out of the honeymoon phase of our relationship and into the boring phase.”

  “We’re not boring. We’re investigating a murder.”

  “Are we?” I asked pointedly. Because the information seemed to be flowing on one direction, and what was I? Chopped liver? “Is that why I’m here?”

  “Okay,” he said, “maybe this wasn’t the best idea for a date. But how else are we going to get together if we don’t multitask?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “You work twelve-hour days, six days a week. Petronella’s starting to wonder why you made her an assistant manager.”

  “What?” I stuttered, flustered. “Did she say something to you?”

  “I don’t want to get in the middle of this.”

  “So, there is something to get in the middle of.” I raked a hand through my hair. Had I accidentally offended Petronella?

  He grimaced. “I’m just saying, you’re busy.”

  “So are you. Your hours are all over the map.”

  “I know,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do about that. But you have an assistant manager—”

  “Pie Town is still understaffed. We nearly went under last spring.”

  “And you came through it. Look, I’m not going to tell you how to manage your business. We’re both busy people. Sometimes, we’re going to have to get creative if we want to spend time together.”